Smoke on the Water (3 page)

“It's not here.” Mary's words were louder than they should have been. Her eyes darted this way and that. The guard—a solid older woman—glanced our way.

I smiled. “I'll help her find it.”

The guard didn't appear convinced. I led Mary into the stacks.

She shoved her fingers into her hair and yanked. I tried to pull her hands down. She tried to put her elbow through my throat. I managed to deflect it.

“I saw the moon,” I said.

Mary stilled. Her hands lowered.

“In my vision. It was the full moon.” I pointed at the skylight. “Streaming in.”

“Ah.” Mary nodded. “The book probably won't be here until the moon is full. No point in searching.”

“All right then,” I said.

“Is there a problem?”

Peggy Dalberg, my caseworker, stood at the end of the row. As her office was right across the hall she'd probably heard Mary's shout. If not, someone had told her about it.

“No,” Mary answered. “The book won't be here until the full moon.”

Peggy didn't appear surprised. I'm sure she'd heard worse—and probably not just from Mary.

I wasn't certain how old Peggy was, though she spoke of grandchildren, and her hair was more silver than gold. Short. No-nonsense. Like Peggy.

If she'd ever had a waist, she didn't anymore. She wore soft colors, soft fabrics, loose and flowing tops and skirts paired with boots in the winter, Birkenstocks in the summer. I bet her grandchildren loved to sit in her lap. I would have. Her blue eyes were kind, and I liked them. I liked her.

“What book?” she asked.

“Book of Shadows,”
Mary answered.

Peggy glanced at me, then back at Mary. “You're interested in Wicca?”

I wasn't sure what to say to that. Mary had talked about witches, not Wicca. They were similar, but not the same, though I wasn't sure of the difference. Still, I'd seen a
Book of Shadows
in my vision, so it would probably be a good idea to discover just what it was.

“We are. Yes. Definitely.”

Peggy urged us to take seats along with her at a nearby table. “Wicca is a pagan religion where the main tenet is to harm none.”

“That's nice,” Mary said, but her fingers twisted together with increasing agitation. I offered my hand, and she took it, calming visibly when our palms met.

Peggy lifted her gaze from our joined hands to my face. I shrugged. For some reason Mary and I had a connection. I couldn't explain it. But one of
my
main tenets had always been: If it works, keep doing it.

“I practice Wicca,” Peggy said. “I could teach you more about it if you'd like.”

“You're a witch?” I asked. She certainly didn't seem the type, but what did I know?

Peggy laughed, and Mary's fingers tightened around mine—once, very hard. I stifled a wince.

“Yes and no. Many followers of Wicca consider themselves witches. Though Wicca is a religion, and witchcraft is a skill set.”

Peggy must have seen my confusion because she continued. “The Wiccan group I belong to meets in the woods and strives for peace and goodness. We try to become one with the earth, we are soothed by nature.”

“Soothed how?”

“Healing herbs.”

I lifted my eyebrows, and she shrugged. “They work.”

I decided not to question too closely which “herbs” she was talking about.

“A day in the sun, a few hours beneath the moon, time spent on or near peaceful water pacifies the soul.”

Water wasn't peaceful to me, and the time I'd spent in nature hadn't been all that soothing. Of course sleeping on cement and peeing behind a bush probably wasn't the kind of “nature” she was referring to.

“If Wicca is a religion, then what's witchcraft?” I asked.

“Spells and magic.”

Mary squeezed my hand again, but she didn't speak. I had to. “You believe in magic?”

Peggy glanced over her shoulder toward the guard, but since Peggy had taken charge of us the other woman had lost interest and stepped into the hall. The door was open but she was too far away to hear anything that we said.

“Everyone should believe in magic. Otherwise what's the point?”

“Believing in magic is what landed a lot of us in here.”

“What landed the two of you in here wasn't magic.”

Technically, she was right.

“What's a
Book of Shadows
?”

“Every Wiccan group—sometimes called a coven—has its own
Book of Shadows
where they record their recipes for healing, the rituals they've performed. Some individuals keep a personal one as well.”

“A witch's diary?”

“If you like.”

“Why would there be one in the library?”

“I'm not following,” Peggy said.

“Mary was searching for a
Book of Shadows.
”

To be fair, she'd been searching because I'd told her to. But I'd seen one here in my vision. Something I couldn't tell Peggy, even if she did practice Wicca and believe in magic.

Mary was getting agitated again—chewing on her lip; her free hand twisted a lock of her hair. I should probably stop asking questions, but I couldn't help myself.

“Why would one of those be here?”

“It wouldn't. Or at least it shouldn't.” Peggy gently took Mary's hand, the one that was twisting hair, and lowered it to the table. “Mary, why were you looking for a
Book of Shadows
?”

Mary glanced at me. Certainly Peggy knew that I had visions—or thought I did—but I was supposed to be getting “better.” Admitting I'd seen the book in one of those visions was not going to help my case.

I shook my head—barely—but people like me and Mary got very good at reading the smallest of hints.

“I'm a witch,” Mary blurted.

Oh boy.

“I know.” Peggy patted Mary's hand. She didn't sound condescending at all, which, considering that she was one too, was impressive.

I waited for Mary to mention that I was a witch as well, but she didn't.

“I wanted to start my own
Book of Shadows,
” Mary said. “But I thought I should read one first.”

Mary might be crazy, but she was far from stupid.

“Good idea.” Peggy released Mary's hand, which went right back to her hair and recommenced twisting. Peggy pretended not to notice. “I'll bring mine for you, all right?”

Mary's raised hand stopped twisting and lowered to the table. “Thank you.”

Did the
Book of Shadows
I'd seen in the vision belong to Peggy? Was Peggy the individual I'd been searching for beneath the full moon that night?

That was the problem with a lot of my visions. I didn't know what they meant until the situations they illustrated actually happened. Even the ones I thought I understood often wound up being confusing when they became a reality. Those about Sebastian Frasier for instance.

Peggy glanced at her watch. “You have therapy, Mary.”

“No. We have Wicca lessons.”

“Come back afterward and we'll start then.”

Mary's lips tightened.

“I promise,” Peggy said. “But if you don't go, you know what'll happen.”

Mary left without another word.

“What'll happen if she doesn't go?” I asked. It had never occurred to me not to go to therapy.

“Therapy is a requirement of her being here rather than in prison. If she doesn't go, she could lose that privilege.”

“Do you think it's a good idea for you to teach her about Wicca when she thinks she's a witch?” I asked.

“I think I'm a witch.”

I thought we were talking about two different kinds of witches, but Peggy didn't seem to get that. And why would she? In her mind witchcraft was a skill set not a delusion. Of course a woman who envisioned the future shouldn't throw the delusion stone around so freely.

“Wicca is about balance, communing with nature and finding peace. Mary could use all of that. Or any of it. Couldn't you?”

Probably wouldn't hurt, but I was still twitchy about Peggy's magic comment.

“You aren't going to teach us how to conjure a spirit or turn water into wine or anything, are you?”

“That's
Second Book of John
not
Book of Shadows
.”

My mouth fell open, and Peggy laughed. “You think because I practice Wicca that I don't know the Bible? They aren't mutually exclusive.”

“Aren't you more about the goddess than God?”

“Why does divinity have to be exclusive rather than inclusive?”

“Got me.” Though I had a feeling statements like that had led to more witch
hunts
than witchery.

“The earth is a gift that we worship.”

That one had idolatry issues, but whatever.

“If you aren't interested in learning, that's fine.”

“No, I am interested. Very.”

The more I knew before the full moon arrived the better.

“Mary thinks she's a witch,” I said. “And I doubt she's talking the Wicca kind.”

“Mary thinks everyone's a witch. It's one of the reasons she's here. Maybe if she learns what witchcraft is, what Wicca means, she might stop seeing broomsticks in every corner.”

“Not if you teach her a spell that makes one fly,” I muttered.

Peggy's gaze sharpened. “Do you believe that I could?”

“Do you?”

We held each other's gaze for several beats, then Peggy shook her head. “When I say spells, I mean rituals.”

“That word just shouts serial killer.”

“How did we go from a peaceful Wiccan chant beneath the moon to a serial killer?”

“It's a lot shorter trip than you seem to think.”

“A ritual is merely a pattern for doing things.”

“Said every serial killer ever.”

Peggy's lips twitched. She found me amusing. So few did, it made me like her even more.

“Religion is based on rituals. The Rosary for instance, the seder. Rituals help people to feel included, safe, protected. A ritual is always the same. The way to keep it the same is to write it down, to practice it over and over, to share it with others of like mind. Wiccan spells, rituals, written in a
Book of Shadows
, is how we do that.”

“Which would make each
Book of Shadows
similar to a book of the Bible.”

“An interesting but fairly accurate analogy.”

“You should probably keep that to yourself, unless you enjoy having your feet slow roasted over an open fire.”

Something flickered across Peggy's face so fast I wasn't sure I'd seen anything at all. Probably just a bird's shadow as it flew across the skylight above.

Probably.

*   *   *

The nurse, who was also Sebastian's assistant, Zoe, had been looking for him because he had his first therapy session in less than a half hour.

Zoe was short, round, bespectacled, and far too young for the job. Not that Sebastian was ancient at thirty-two. He just felt like it.

He'd thought he would have more time to get acclimated. Of course if he hadn't been drawn to the two women in the hall he would have had it. Instead he'd had to hurry into his office, shed his boots and leather jacket, glance at his schedule, his messages. Before he was even able to find his patient files, let alone read them, Mary McAllister walked in.

“What's wrong?” He got up from his desk so fast his chair spun backward and hit the wall. “Is Willow all right?”

Mary's lips curved as if she knew a secret. He hated that expression. He'd seen it on the faces of many of his patients, and they were usually right. They knew a secret, and he had to pry it out. The secret was often bogus—as in lies, fantasy, delusion—but not to the patient.

“She's fine.”

“Then what are you—?”

Mary took the chair in front of his desk, and he understood. She was his first therapy session.

He shut the door, tried to get his act together. Why was he so concerned about a young woman who wasn't his concern? Although … He glanced at the stack of files. Maybe she was. And wouldn't that just be fantastic?

Sebastian hitched a hip onto the front of his desk and rubbed a hand over his face. The scritch of his beard made him wish again that he'd shaved. Though maybe he'd just let it grow. The calendar might read August, but a chill already haunted every dawn.

He'd heard snow could arrive this far north as early as September. A layer of fur on his face might be welcome. He'd lived his entire life in Missouri—not the South, though it tried to be. The weather was definitely nicer than here. He could feel the difference already.

Sebastian dropped his hand. Mary was watching him.

“Where you from?” she asked.

“Missouri.”

“Never been.”

“I've never been this far north,” he said, the words echoing his earlier thoughts about beards and snow.

“Is it warm there?” she asked. “Missouri?”

Sebastian nodded.

“You should probably keep the beard.”

Sebastian blinked. Had she read his mind?

Mary smiled as if … she'd just read his mind.

“Coffee.” He stood. “Would you like some?”

She shook her head, her gaze steady on his face. He felt as if she were leading this session and not him. Probably because she'd participated in a lot more sessions than he had.

Be it on one side of the desk or the other, Mary knew how things went. With a new doctor, there was small talk. Where are you from? What's it like? How's the weather? Then … slightly larger talk.

“What am I in for?” She laughed at his expression. “Been here.” She waved back and forth between them. “Done this.”

Again with the mind reading.

He went to the coffeepot on top of the file cabinet in the corner of his office. Dry as his mouth. Damn.