Black Magic Woman (34 page)

This town ain't big enough for both of us, witch lady. Draw!

If it were only that simple.

She looked to be about seventeen, as she stood there in tight shorts and a black "Nine Inch Nails" T-shirt. Both eyebrows and one nostril were pierced with small gold rings. The spiky black hair was bisected by a set of lightweight headphones connected to an iPod player at her waistband. Her head bobbed a little to the beat of whatever she was listening to.

She looked at Morris with the utter indifference achievable only by civil servants and teenagers and asked, "Whatcha want?"

After a moment's hesitation, Morris said, "I'm looking for Christine Abernathy."

"Who?"

Morris began to wonder if he had the right address. But the young woman had now removed her headphones, so he repeated, "Christine Abernathy."

"Oh. Um, yeah. Come on in."

Once Morris was inside, she said "This way," and led him down the length of a carpeted hallway toward the back of the house. The hall ended at the entrance to a big, open room that was flooded with sunlight from several large windows. Morris followed the girl inside, and saw that it was clearly some kind of family room, containing mismatched couches and chairs, a fireplace, a big screen TV and a half-size billiard table. Posters from the
Shrek
and
Spiderman
movies decorated the walls, and potted plants were placed under each of the windows.

Apart from Morris and the teenage girl who'd brought him here, there was no one else in the room.

He turned to ask the girl something—but she was gone. He had not heard her leave.

Keyed up as he was, he should have heard her.

He went back to the door he'd just come through and opened it. The long hallway was empty.

From behind him, a female voice said, "Welcome to Salem, Mr. Morris. I trust your journey wasn't lacking in moments of… interest."

Morris whirled toward the sound of the voice, and saw that the pleasant family room was gone.

He now stood in a windowless chamber of rough stone walls, with a slate floor that was dotted by a few rugs with cabalistic symbols woven into them. The chamber was dimly lit by candles placed here and there, and by the flames that flickered in the fireplace beneath what looked for all the world like a bubbling cauldron. Shelves and cabinets held dusty jars and bottles, and devices whose purposes might only be guessed at. Some old-looking tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes that Morris decided he didn't want to look at too closely. In any case, his gaze was drawn almost instantly to the woman sitting in the large, throne-like chair who was looking at him with an expression of amused contempt.

She was the same teenage girl who had answered the door. Except that she wasn't.

This young woman's black hair was long and flowing, not cropped short as in her other incarnation. The piercings were gone, and now she appeared to be wearing pale makeup, along with a shade of lipstick that seemed to be the exact color of fresh human blood. The contemporary teen clothing had been replaced by a simple black dress with bell sleeves and a long, flared skirt. Feet clad in shiny black boots were visible under the hem of the dress.

Morris made an effort to push aside this latest mental shock. He took a couple of paces forward, his steps audible on the hard floor. In a voice that was as calm as he could make it, he said, "Christine Abernathy, I presume?"

The young woman inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Do you like the effect?" she asked, making a small gesture that took in the whole room. "We're nothing if not traditional, here in Salem."

"Very impressive," Morris said. "Almost as impressive as all those other little tricks you played on me while I was on my way up here. I assume they were all just illusions. Conjuring tricks, right? Like they have in those Las Vegas shows?"

Her eyes narrowed a little. "Well, there are all kinds of 'conjuring tricks,' as you put it. And not all of them involve illusions. I believe your car has a cracked windshield and some body damage that the people at Avis are going to be very unhappy about. That's not quite an illusion, is it?"

She looked toward the fireplace, and the large vessel that bubbled there. "And if you believe that cauldron to be just an illusion, I invite you to go over and stick your hand in it, as deeply as you like. The third-degree burns you receive will be, I assure you, no illusion."

The fire under the cauldron roared high for a moment, then subsided. It sounded to Morris like the growl of a large, hungry animal.

"And don't expect any help from me afterward, for the pain and scarring," she continued. "I don't usually heal pain and scars, anyway." The smile returned. "I much prefer to cause them."

"You've caused plenty for the LaRue family already," Morris said.

"You think? Oh, but I've barely begun."

"But
why?"

"I'm tempted to say,
because I can,
and there's a certain amount of truth to that." She shifted position in the big chair. "But you know the real reason, you must. You wouldn't be here, otherwise."

"What, all because of something that happened during the witch trials, three hundred-some years ago? Everybody involved in that business, on both sides, has been dead a long, long time."

"Yes, but the memory lingers, like a festering sore. As it will continue to do, until every last descendant of that Warren bitch is wiped out. The coven that my family owes its allegiance to has a motto, Mister Morris: 'No slight forgotten, no injury unavenged.'"

"And you're expecting to accomplish your vengeance through black magic?"

"Of course. I would have thought that obvious, by now."

"The practice of black magic—that comes with a pretty high price tag, doesn't it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about eternal damnation, the inevitable result of selling your soul to the Devil. Which is what anyone has to do who wants to use black magic."

For a moment there was something in her face that made her look older than her years. Morris thought it might have been despair, but it was gone so quickly he could not be certain.

"I was raised to be what I am from the cradle, if not from the womb, Mister Morris. I never had the choice to be anything else." She sat up a little straighter. "Not that I would, given the chance." After a moment she said, reflectively, "And who knows, there may yet be an escape clause in the agreement you referred to. If there is, I'll find it, in time."

"Somehow, I don't think you're the first black witch to console herself with that particular fantasy," he said. "Sounds to me kind of like somebody whistling her way past the graveyard."

"You're starting to bore me, Mr. Morris. Is that why you made your determined way to Salem? To bore me to death?"

"I came here to ask you what it is you want in order to leave the LaRues alone."

"What I
want?"
She seemed amused by the notion. "You came here to
bribe
me?"

"No, I came here to bargain with you."

"To bargain? How charming! And what do you believe you have to bargain with?"

"That goes back to the question of what you want."

She thought about it, or pretended to. "All right, how about this? Your little friend Elizabeth Chastain has proven a more formidable adversary than I had first reckoned. I doubt she's going to survive her injuries, but it's possible she might. And if she does, she could eventually pose a problem for me. Only a minor one, but still…"

Morris thought he could see where this was heading, but he kept silent.

"Very well, then," she continued. "Go back to New York, and kill that Chastain bitch for me. That should present no real problem. Apart from her grievously weakened condition, which should make her easy prey, she seems to trust you, the Devil knows why."

"And if I do that, if I kill Libby, then you'll give up your vendetta against the LaRue family." Morris's voice was utterly without inflection.

"Yes, I will," she said gravely. "I give you my word."

"No, I don't think I can accommodate you on that one." Morris let the anger into his voice now. "And even if I thought for half a second that you'd actually keep your word, the answer would still be 'no,' you twisted little monster."

"Oh, well." She seemed neither surprised nor disappointed. "Can't blame a girl for trying. But now let me ask you something, Quincey Harker Morris: what is the one thing you fear the most in this world?"

Snakes.

Morris said nothing.

Snakes.

He tried hard to keep his mind a blank, too—but that's like telling yourself you're not going to think about pink elephants.

Snakes.

Morris had been eight years old when he'd stumbled upon the Diamondback rattlesnake in the grassy field that abutted his family's back yard. It was a toss-up as to which one of them had been more surprised by the encounter—young Quincey or the rattler. But the snake had quicker reactions, and it bit the boy on the ankle before slithering back into the undergrowth. He'd run home screaming, and his mother, after tying a hasty tourniquet just below his knee, had proceeded to break every traffic law in Texas getting him to the emergency room. Although the doctors and nurses knew just what to do, and did it well, the pain had been excruciating, and he had been forced to stay off the foot for weeks afterward. Ever since then, he had been terrified of—

"Snakes, is it?" Christine Abernathy said, as if Morris had answered her out loud. "How wonderfully Freudian. Well you don't have to worry, Mr. Morris. There are no poisonous snakes in this part of Massachusetts." Her smile caused an icy finger to trace its way down his spine. "And, of course, no witches, either."

Morris started to speak, but she shook her head. "No, this has become tiresome. I really think it's time for you to go." She made a slight gesture with one hand, and Morris was suddenly standing outside, looking at the front door he had knocked on minutes earlier. He felt no inclination to knock again.

On the way back to his hotel, Morris replayed the encounter in his mind over and over, wondering what he should have said or done differently. After a while, he concluded there was nothing in his power that would have made any dent in Christine Abernathy's implacable malignity.

He had not come to Salem with any clear objective in mind. He had intended to confront Christine Abernathy, and he had accomplished that, for all the good it had done him. And he had wanted to take her measure. He had done that, too, and found her formidable—and terrifying. But he had no idea what his next move should be. Libby had said that it was imperative he travel to Salem immediately, and so here he was.

He wished Libby were there to tell him what he was supposed to do now.

Back in his hotel room, he restlessly channel-surfed the TV for a while, then decided to take a shower. He often had his best ideas while under hot running water, and an idea was something he definitely could use right about now.

Morris clicked the TV screen to black, and started taking off his clothes.