Mark of the Witch. Maggie Shayne
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room at the oversize crucifix on the opposite wall. “But the Lord has spoken to me, told me it has to be you. This is the mission I’ve trained for all my life. Now it falls to my successor before his time. But that’s the way it has to be. So sayeth the Lord.”
“All things happen for a reason, Father Dom.” But inside Tomas was thinking this couldn’t be happening. Now not, not when he’d finally made the decision to leave the priesthood and sent in the paperwork making the request formal.
Thank God he hadn’t yet told the old man.
“Watch and wait for the signs, Tomas. Watch for the witches of Babylon. The Demon’s whores. Each of them bound by oath and by blood to help He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken to escape. Stop the first of them and you stop them all. You must do this, no matter how difficult, in order to keep the demon from emerging and wreaking havoc on the world of man. It is our calling.”
It is a fairy tale, Tomas thought. But I’ll humor you a bit longer. “How will I know—”
“It’s written, ‘the witch’s past sins will rise up to mark her flesh and wake her memory.’ Watch, wait, listen, and take heed when you are called. I’ll help you all I can, Tomas, but the task, for some reason, must be yours.”
Tomas nodded solemnly. He wasn’t entirely sure Dom was 100 percent wrong about this, after all. The scrolls were real, and the tale was in them. He had seen it. “And if I locate the first witch and stop her from helping the demon—”
“Then the next will never be activated and our mission is done. Theoretically the Portal won’t open again until the next alignment, another three thousand five hundred years from now. But if you fail …”
“If I fail to stop the first witch, I have to try again with the second. And if I fail to stop her, then I try again with the third.”
“And if you fail then … the demon walks among us and the world of man is doomed.” Father Dom gripped Tomas’s wrist in his hand, squeezing so hard it hurt. “Do you believe me, Tomas? Have I shown you enough proof of the existence of demons, of the power of them, of the danger they pose, to make you a believer in the ancient prophecy?”
Tomas met the old man’s eyes. There was holy fire sparking from their depths. “Yes,” he said at length. “Yes, Father Dom. I believe.” It was a lie, and he felt guilty as hell for telling it, but what else could he do?
“Hold on to that faith, my son. You are going to need it.”
No harm in humoring him a bit longer, Tomas thought. He would play along. But he knew there would be no signs. No witches. No marks. Samhain would pass, and Dom would have to concede defeat. And then Tomas could leave knowing he’d done the best he could for the old guy.
Then his sister called, and all that changed.
The occult shop in Greenwich Village had a minuscule backyard enclosed by a vine-smothered stone wall and bathed in moonlight. Fingers of dark cloud slithered over the face of the moon, only two days past full. A true Halloween moon—perfect ambiance for a Halloween night gathering of witches. There were fountains and statues marking the four directions. Venus in the west, pouring water from a conch. Brigit—the Celtic goddess of the forge and giver of creative fire to poets—in the south, holding a shallow basin where blue flames floated. On the east wall, the beautiful Eostre—Germanic goddess of spring and rebirth—a ring of wildflowers upon her head, incense wafting spirals of fragrant smoke around her. The north boundary was the back of the brick building, and in front of it stood a modern rendition of Gaia. She held a dish of sea salt in her lap.
I sat in the center of it, and five witches stood around me in a circle. They had already performed all the preliminaries and had gone silent now to listen to Rayne as she led the rite.
“We come to weave a web of protection around the solitary witch Indira,” she said, her voice deep and compelling.
I wanted to correct her—former solitary witch. The words rose in my throat, but I bit my tongue to hold them in.
Rayne wore her long black robes tonight, her vivid red hair loose and moving in the slight breeze, her eyeliner exaggerated, and every limb dripping with sacred jewelry. The other women were dressed much the same way. Everyone jingled when they moved. Even me. I’d dug through my closets and pulled out my old witchy wardrobe. I had chosen white, since this was a spell of protection. A white one-shoulder dress with gold trim that could have been Grecian. But it reminded me, too, of the clothes I wore in that powerful, terrifying dream.
I’d donned my pentacle again. I told myself it didn’t mean I was returning to the fold or had started believing again. I didn’t believe. There was no magic in the world. I’d proven that to myself. I’d cast and cast and cast my spells, but my soul mate hadn’t appeared. And I’d been so damned sure he would—so certain he was real. All my life I’d felt this unnamed, unknowable longing gaping like a great big giant hole in my gut. A yearning for the man who was supposed to be by my side, whose absence I felt keenly, even though we had never met. It was real, that feeling. Which meant he had to be real, too.
I ached for him. Sometimes even cried for him. Like a real lover I’d had and lost. That’s how vivid the feeling was.
Sort of like those damned dreams.
Hey, that was encouraging. Maybe they were as flimsy and imaginary as he was.
Anyway, he hadn’t come, so I’d stopped believing. Magic either worked or it didn’t. Black and white. Scientific method. Test the theory, prove it right or wrong. I’d tested it. It hadn’t worked. Ergo, no magic. Period.
And yet, when I’d pulled out my pretty mini-treasure chest from the back of my closet and opened it, and the smells of sandalwood and dragon’s blood resin had enveloped me like a puff of magic from a genie’s lamp, I’d felt it all coming back to me. Witchcraft might be all bullshit, but it had felt very real from time to time.
It felt real now.
Rayne was still talking. Her voice was different during a ritual. Deeper. More powerful. “Together with the powers of Earth, Air, Fire, Water and Spirit, and by the unyielding power of the Goddess Herself, we weave this web so that nothing, be it from this world or any other, may harm this woman.” Facing me, she said, “Do you have any requests of the Goddess before we raise the cone of power, Indira Simon?”
I nodded and, rising to my feet, lifted my eyes and arms skyward. I felt a tingle flowing through me from the tips of my fingers down my arms, into my spine, and another upward from the ground, through my feet, up my legs and into my spine, until the two energies met and exploded. I pulsed with it and reminded myself it was just a trick of the mind.
“Show me what I need to know,” I said, though I was sure no one was listening. I was playing along because Rayne knew something and I wanted her to tell me what it was. “Show me what these dreams mean, what you want of me. More than anything right now, I need clarity. Wisdom. And information.”
And while you’re at it, that soul mate I’ve been longing for, forever and a day, would be a really nice bonus. You know, on the off chance you’re real.
Stupid. You gave up on that, remember?
“So mote it be,” Lady Rayne said.
“So mote it be,” the others all repeated in unison.
“So mote it be,” I whispered softly. I don’t have any idea why there were tears rolling down my cheeks. Maybe my eyes were just reacting to the smoke from the incense that hung in the air. It didn’t dissipate like you’d expect it to do, outside like this. And even though it was the end of October, it was warm within the circle, as if it were physically holding our body heat and the fragrant smoke within it, just like it would supposedly hold the energy we raised until Rayne sent it forth to become the magical goal.
One woman hit her djembe drum, beginning a slow, steady beat. Another joined in, adding an accent, and then another