Witch Hunt (14 page)

The people began to congregate outside the south gate of Hawthorne Manor at eight o’clock.

Vivian was frantic. “What are we going to do, Craig?”

“Play hide-and-seek or show-and-tell.” He put on his favorite golf cap and snapped the strap of his polka-dot suspenders. “After giving it some more thought, I think show-and-tell might be more productive. If we ignore them, the problem isn’t going to go away. Adrian said that the worldwide persecutions he saw could possibly be prevented. I want to give reason a try.”

“You’re not going out there?” Vivian asked.

“Unless you have a magic wand that’ll make the preacher man and his followers disappear in a
poof
.”

“You know I don’t.”

“No, we witches are so terrifyingly powerful, such a horrible threat to them, and yet we can’t even keep them from persecuting us. Makes a whole lot of sense, don’t it?”

“We’re going with you,” Jason said. Melanie stood defiantly by his side.

Craig nodded. So far, he had seen them only as a sullen sixteen-year-old girl and an angry seventeen-year-old boy. It was good to see that they had some redeeming features. “Okey-doke.”

“Okey-doke,” Adrian echoed.

“Me, too,” Kamelia said.

“Nope.”

“But, Dad.”

“Nope. You’re going to stay inside the castle with the drawbridge raised.”

“I’m coming,” Leigh said.

Craig shook his head. “It’s not your fight.”

“The hell it’s not.”

Craig was surprised by the tone of her voice. He shrugged. “You stand with us, you’ll damn yourself.”

“Any way you look at it, it seems I’m damned anyway.”

“Lovely commentary on the situation, don’t you think?” He snapped his suspenders again. “Well, shall we, boys and girls?”

The four of them went out into the night to meet the gathering crowd.

They walked slowly through the grounds, not anxious for the confrontation. Lighted torches on a myriad of stands illumined their path.

“I’m sorry I never told you about the witchcraft,” Craig said to Leigh. “I guess I hoped it would never come up … that we could be kinda like Rob and Laura Petrie.”

“That’s bullshit,” Leigh said. “You go to great lengths to ensure that our family isn’t of the normal all-American variety.”

Craig sighed. “You don’t understand. If I were concerned with being a witch, I’d go to great lengths to act normal — so no one would be suspicious. Look around you. That’s how my family is. It was because I felt free that I could be … well … free. Can’t you see?”

Leigh maintained a stony silence.

“If I had told you, then I would’ve been a ‘witch’ again, and I couldn’t have just been me.”

It was Leigh’s turn to sigh. “Well, it’s a moot point now.”

“Ain’t it the truth?”

They neared the gate.

“I don’t think you should open it,” Leigh said.

“Then they’ll know we’re scared. We’ve got to show them we have nothing to be scared of, that we have nothing to hide.”

“What if … well, something happens?” Leigh asked.

“Then at least we’ve tried. It’s better than cowering with fear and letting evil have its way.”

Leigh looked at him curiously. “Evil? I’ve never heard you use that word before.”

“Doc Hawthorne’s dictionary defines it as that which stifles life, creativity, and joy. People like the preacher man, who spread hate and inflict guilt, they’re the evil ones.”

Preacher Cody stood outside the gate with fifty or so supporters. Craig recognized few of the faces in the crowd, but the torchlight fell on one person he remembered well. James Bradshaw, the President of the Montvue First National Bank — which held the Hawthorne millions — stood with the preacher.

Cody greeted them with a smile. “I didn’t think you’d face us, Dr. Hawthorne.”

“I’m not going to be intimidated by the likes of you.”

“Is that why you won’t open your gate to me?”

Craig opened the gate wide.

“Did you watch my broadcast this evening?” Cody asked.

“You got your facts all wrong.”

“How is that?”

“You showed a bunch of Satanists doing a black mass. That has nothing to do with witchcraft.”

Cody smiled. “Interesting that you know this.”

“Satanism is a deliberate perversion of Christianity by demented, rebellious individuals. Witchcraft is just the folk religion the Europeans practiced before the advent of Christianity. Witches don’t even believe in the Devil, let alone serve him.”

“Well, Dr. Hawthorne, I’m impressed by your familiarity with the subject. How is it that you know these things? Are you a witch?”

Craig was not about to admit to Cody that he was a witch, not when the preacher had such a perverted concept of what that meant.

“I’m familiar with the facts because I’m a well-educated man. If you were well-educated, then you’d know the facts, too.”

Cody threw his head back and met Craig’s attack in turn. “I am well-educated in the ways of the Lord. Can you say the same?”

“I have no interest in your religion, preacher man. That’s my constitutional right.”

“And it is these people’s God-given right to oppose you!”

Craig heard Leigh utter a small gasp as Cody’s powerful voice rose and shook the night air.

“We’ve come here tonight to tell you of God’s forgiveness for your sins, if you’ll repent and ask for it. We have come here tonight to show you that our God is one of mercy and grace.”

Cody’s followers punctuated his words with shouts of “Amen” and “Glory be,” and in their excitement, began to surge forward.

“God’s word says that you are an abomination! If you accept Jesus Christ as your savior and leave behind the ways of the flesh that taint your soul, you can be saved. It doesn’t matter that you were born into a family of vile witches, or that you, Mrs. Hawthorne, married a witch and bore witch children, because your true birthright is divine. All you need do is claim it.”

Before Craig could react, the crowd surged and pushed them back farther onto their property, off the cobblestone driveway, and toward the guest cottage. As they moved deeper into the shadows, people grabbed flaming torches from the stands in order to light their way.

“Craig!” Leigh shouted for him, but the mass of bodies bearing down kept him from moving to her side.

“And you children, perverted by the sins of your elders, you, too, can find God. It isn’t too late!”

“Stay away from us, you creep.” Jason tried to push the preacher backward while shielding Melanie from his grasping hands.

“The end times are at hand. All who don’t find salvation beforehand will have to suffer the wrath of God’s retribution as the world is punished for its grievous sins.”

The body of people stopped moving when they reached the cottage.

Craig, straining to see Leigh among the crowd, noticed James Bradshaw standing with a flaming torch held high above his head. The flames of the torch were licking at the wooden shingles that extended from the cottage’s roof.

“Bradshaw!” Craig pointed at the roof. “Look up!”

The banker’s attention — as well as that of everyone else in the crowd of believers — was on Cody, who took Craig’s verbal cue.

“Yes, look up to heaven and see the hosts of angels waiting to welcome the righteous into eternal paradise.”

The wind gusted, and the shingles accepted the flame.

“Fire!” Craig became frantic.

“Yes, the flames of hell fire and damnation await those who deny the Lord thy God.” Cody, trancelike in his exhortation, seemed oblivious to the events occurring around him.

Craig unsuccessfully tried to plow his way through the crowd to reach the cottage. “You goddamn bastards, you’ve started a fire!”

“And the fire of truth will burn away the dross material of our mortal beings, and our souls shall be free.”

Craig lunged for Cody and grabbed him by his shirt. He drew his face toward his own. “Your people have started my uncle’s cottage on fire, and he’s in there, crippled and bedridden.”

Cody’s cloudy eyes cleared, and he focused on Craig’s. Shock registered, and he strained to look in the direction Craig was pointing. “Oh, Lord.” He pushed Craig away and tried to clear a path through the mass of people. The crowd, no longer mesmerized by their leader’s words, noticed the flaming roof and began to scream and scatter. James Bradshaw, jostled by those around him, inadvertently dropped the torch. It landed on the ledge of the closed window behind him, breaking the glass. Before he managed to retrieve it, the flames ignited the inside curtains.

Melanie screamed. “Uncle Dori!”

Craig, Cody, Leigh, Melanie, and Jason all moved closer to the small frame building which was quickly being engulfed by the fire.

When they were near enough to feel the heat from the flames, Cody froze, a look of stark terror crossing his face. “Oh, God, not fire.” He slowly backed away.

Craig didn’t pause to weigh the risks or consider the probabilities as he left his family’s side and raced toward the front of the cottage. He heard Leigh call to him but didn’t turn back. He didn’t want his resolve to weaken. He had to try and save Dorian. He couldn’t leave the old man alone to die such a terrible death.

He ran up the wheelchair ramp and burst into the house through the front door, where thick smoke enveloped him in a shroud of darkness. He tried to shout for his uncle, but couldn’t breathe. The sound of Dorian’s wild shrieks told Craig where he was.

He raced down the hall to the bedroom, but when he entered, he drew back in horror — Dorian’s body, showered by flaming ceiling boards, was on fire. Craig grabbed a nearby quilt, and was dashing to smother the flames when a great billow of fire raced down the hallway to claim him. The searing pain he felt before losing consciousness reminded him of another, similar death he had suffered at the hands of Christians in the distant past.

It was like a bad dream, replaying itself again and again.

Chapter Four

1840

Ireland

Cassie Callaghan awoke with a start, her straw bed damp with her own sweat, the stink of the putrid fields crossing over from the dream world and filling her nose with a rancid smell of decay. She moaned her disgust and fumbled in the darkness for the flower sachet she made when the dreams began. “Shit.”

Her father, asleep on his own bed, stirred. “Cassie?”

“Go back to sleep, Da. ‘Twas the dream again.”

“Seems the gods are tryin’ to tell you somethin’, lass.”

“To be sure.” Cassie’s hand found the small linen bag and rushed it to her face. She breathed deeply of the delicate bouquet, and, despite the gnawing stomach pain that always accompanied the recurring nightmare, she slowly relaxed.

“Morrigan, be my strength,” Cassie prayed to the ancestral warrior goddess whom she worshiped — a goddess who, according to legend, bestowed upon her devotees the gifts of ferocity and fearlessness. Cassie was never afraid. But she was determined to get out of Ireland before the land began to die.

Tyler Hawthorne shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, his crotch burning with discomfort.

Sir Cedric eyed him. “The rot?”

Tyler shook his head and winced as his horse slowed to a more jarring trot. “Too much attention. There was a young lady on the crossing who was … lively.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re wife hunting. You don’t want it to fall off from wear. That’s something you won’t have to worry about with a wife.”

“Depends on the woman in question, I should think.”

“Don’t hold any illusions, son. Take it from an old man. Get married, and your pecker’ll never get sore again. Unless you stray from home, of course.”

“Since it’s your daughter I’m here to court, I’ll leave that one alone.”

Sir Cedric’s eyes twinkled their amusement. “Yes, I’d think that wise.”

Tyler grinned. He had come a long way in search of a wife, and this was the end of the road. He had travelled to England, Scotland, and now Ireland to find a bride. He had already passed on Elizabeth Eldon and Fiona Carlyle, and unless Miss Gwendolyn Watkins was a real toad, he would ask for her. He liked Cedric, and the dowry wouldn’t be wanting; Sir Cedric Watkins was one of the wealthiest landlords in Ireland. Most important of all, the Watkins family was of the old blood. Despite the problems finding a spouse often created, the Hawthornes had never married outside their religion.

The path they were riding was boggy and difficult for the horses to traverse, which kept Tyler alert with pain. Sir Cedric made a visible effort to disguise his amusement.

“I hope you don’t mind the scenic route through my lands, son. Didn’t anticipate your, ah, situation.”

“No problem,” Tyler said.

The two horses drew up at the river, and Sir Cedric urged his horse onto a narrow path that ran along the shoreline. “There’s a crossing downstream.”

Tyler followed him onto the path, and when they rounded a bend in the river, he was startled to see a naked young woman, standing calf-deep in the water.

“Nice scenery,” he commented as he took note of her plump breasts and rounded buttocks. The angular beauty of her face and the shimmering quality of her long ebony hair were noted as an afterthought. His was a more lusty than aesthetic nature.

Sir Cedric chuckled. “Black Irish, but one of us.”

“Us?”

“Old blood. I have a lot of them on my lands. It’s become their haven from Catholic oppression, which they claim is worse than English oppression. We have a Catholic church, but I’ve been able to manage its tyranny in these parts. I control their coffers, so they don’t fuss with me too much. About the pagans, I like them here for reasons of my own. I have the most productive farmland of any of the other landholders in the country. We still — in a circumspect manner, of course — practice the old fertility festivals. It’s a good life.”

They rode up alongside the woman.

Tyler grinned. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Mornin’, Sir Cedric,” the woman said.

Sir Cedric tipped his hat in passing. “Cassie, dear. You’re looking lovely today.”

She flashed a bright smile and threw her shoulders back. “Thanks for noticin’.”

Tyler laughed at her boldness and nodded a greeting.

After they rounded another bend in the river, Cedric said, “Speaking of fertility rituals, Cassie’s the only one who’s been able to get my horn to fill — if you get my meaning — in recent years.”

“Mmmm. Yes, her talents did seem worthy.” The thought of Cassie’s nakedness eased the pain of Tyler’s discomfort.

Tyler openly studied Gwendolyn. He took note, with disappointment, that her breasts were small and her middle was thick. However, she had a pleasant face with a big mouth; if all else failed to arouse his desire, she could use the mouth to pleasure him. She looked to be good breeding stock, which was what he wanted most in a wife. So, in his own mind, it was settled.

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow and gave him a cool look. “Well, do I pass inspection?”

He was startled by her tone. He didn’t really wish to be ungentlemanly about the whole matter. “I apologize for my rudeness. Ah, yes, you do.”

“Good. Now, let’s hope you pass mine.” She brushed past him, her full silk skirt and petticoats rustling as she disappeared out the front door.

Sir Cedric took Tyler’s hat from him and hung it next to his on a rack. “I should have warned you. Gwendolyn doesn’t think too highly of Americans. She has an idea they’re coarse and uncultured.”

“She’s right.”

“Well, I think it’s a good match. It just might take a little doing to convince her.”

Tyler laughed. “And here I thought I was such a catch there’d be no holding her back.”

“Women can be a humbling experience, son. Take it from an old man.”

“Da, he’s beautiful. Like Lugh himself, his yellow hair bright like the sun. I want him.” Cassie and Angus sat by the turf fire in their one-room cottage, eating a meal of boiled potatoes and buttermilk.

“A sun god, eh?” Angus paused to slurp the milk. “I heard he’s a rich American, of the old blood, here to marry Miss Gwen.”

“Sure, and they’re not married yet.”

Angus’s long tongue reached up and wiped away his buttermilk mustache. “And how are you fixin’ to make off with him? You goin’ to sashay up to the big house and charm his breeches off? I imagine he’s done all the sightseein’ he’s goin’ to do. There won’t be another festival for a month. The only kind of gatherin’s that leaves are weddin’s and wakes, and no one’s been about marryin’ or dyin’ of late.”

Dying. The smells of her nightmares came back to gag her, and she choked on her food. Her heart beat louder, and for a moment she thought she heard the sound of wings beating the air around her. “You’re wrong.”

“What’s your blathering?”

Exhilaration filled her. The wings returned, seemingly louder. She got the vague impression that they were the strong wings of a raven. A dark shadow fell on her, and she understood that it was Morrigan’s raven. Legend told that the raven was the harbinger of the goddess’s presence. She looked around but could see nothing.

Angus stopped eating. “Cassie?”

Cassie dropped her cup and bowl, and her breath came in gasps. She felt a surge of might, and a sense of being invincible. The blight to come became clear in her mind, as did her route of escape. She fixed her cloudy eyes on her father.

Angus began to tremble. “I don’t know what’s come over you, but it makes me feel mighty queer.”

“I was about to tell you that you were wrong, Da.”

“I don’t like the mean in your voice.”

“I heard the banshee last night. Right outside our window. The one closest to your bed.”

“Put the knife down, lass.”

Cassie looked at her hand and saw the firelight reflecting off the blade. She hadn’t even realized she had picked it up. “‘Tis the goddess; she’s come for you.”

Angus struggled against age and fear to rise, but he was too slow. The knife tore into his gut.

“I need to have a wake so the bright American will come and let me bewitch him.”

“‘Tisn’t the goddess.” Angus’s strangled voice was sad. “You’re daft, child.”

“You’ve lived long enough. You’ll serve me better dead.”

“Daft.” Angus slumped forward onto her.

She pushed his dead weight off her and looked down to see the stain on her hands and the front of her dress. She rubbed her fingers together, feeling the stickiness of the blood, and then put her fingers to her mouth in wonderment. The taste and smell elated her.

“Oh, Da. Sure, and I belong to the goddess now.”

Eleanor Watkins was a fat woman who talked too much. Tyler became transfixed by the gaping maw of her mouth as it rambled virtually nonstop. With dismay, he realized that the daughter’s mouth was much more likely to follow in the direction of the mother’s, than be trained by him to coax and pleasure.

“What’s the name of your shipping line again?” Eleanor asked.

“Van Carel and — ”

“Hawthorne. Of course. And you and the Van Carels go back quite a long time, I understand?”

“Since the late — ”

“Sixteen-nineties. Yes, I’ve heard. And you live in New York City with …”