Mark of the Witch (2 page)

“Use the water and draw an
X
on her
forehead whenever I tell you.”

Tomas moved up to the other side of the bed. The girl stank of
urine, and it made him want to gag. She was foaming at the mouth like a rabid
dog, thick white bubbles erupting everywhere.

“Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde…”
Dom nodded at him, and Tomas wet his forefinger with holy water and drew
an
X
on the girl’s forehead. She was hot to the
touch, and Dom was still praying.
“In nomine Dei Patris
omnipotentis…”

He kept going. Tomas stopped listening. He found himself pulled
into the girl’s eyes until they rolled back, and he shot Dom a look. “She needs
an ambulance. A hospital.”

Dom stopped what he was doing and glared at him. Then he lifted
one long arm and pointed his arthritically bumpy forefinger at the door. “Get
thee behind me.” He didn’t say “Satan,” but it was in his tone.

Tomas didn’t argue. He didn’t want any part of this. He left
the room, head down, and walked down the stairs and out of the house. His trusty
old Volvo wagon was waiting at the curb, behind Dom’s boat-sized
seventy-something Buick. He got in and drove, and he didn’t look back.

* * *

I sat at the Coffee House. That was the name of the
place, the Coffee House. Its stylized Formica tables were kidney-shaped and
orange, with half-circle bench seats curving around the widest side. Stainless
steel “pipes” twisted and curved overhead, lights affixed to them, aimed in
random directions. Someone once said it was supposed to be retro, but it felt
more like “
Jetsons
Chic” to me. The colors were
perfect—today was Halloween, and I was at an orange Formica table waiting to
meet with a Wiccan high priestess.

I was feeling awkward as hell as I waited for Rayne Blackwood
to arrive.

She was one of my best friends, or had been until I’d renounced
my witchhood and handed in my pentacle. (Okay, figuratively, not literally. The
pent was still in my treasure box, along with all my other witchy stuff.)

I’d started studying the “Craft of the Wise,” otherwise known
as witchcraft, several years earlier and, being an independent type, I had
preferred practicing alone to joining a group. Besides, they still called them
“covens,” and I just couldn’t stop sniggering at the word. Call me a cynic.
Whatever. So I’d been what was known in the Craft as a “solitary practitioner.”
Even now, when I was no longer a believer, Craft holidays still felt like
my
holidays. But there was a lot to be said for
celebrating the holidays with others. Banging on a
djembe
drum alone in my apartment just wasn’t the same as sitting in
a circle with twenty others, all playing as one. I know it sounds lame, but
don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.

Anyway, since the only people who celebrated Wiccan holidays
were Wiccan people, I’d wound up seeking them out.

Rayne’s
coven
(snigger) was a very
traditional one in a lot of ways, with secret
oathbound
rites and all that. Rayne was its leader, a Third Degree High Priestess
with a Pagan lineage as long as her arm, and therefore entitled to be addressed
as
Lady
Rayne. But Rayne had never bought into the
lofty title thing, either. None of her witches called her “Lady” anything.

Still, she was a big deal, Wicca-wise. And not a small deal
mundane-wise, either—a partner in a Manhattan law firm and a class-A beauty.
Green eyes, red hair, killer figure.

Almost as soon as I visualized her in my mind’s eye, Rayne came
in, waved hello and sent me her stunning smile, then stopped at the counter on
the way over, not continuing until she had a cup of high-test in her hand. She
wore a sassy little designer suit, black tailored jacket with a short skirt,
teal shell underneath, and a tiny, tasteful silver chain around her neck, with
matching studs in her earlobes. No giant pentacle pendant. No dangling crystal
stars or moons at her earlobes. She was a practical witch. Didn’t feel the need
to announce her faith on a sandwich board while walking to work. Don’t laugh.
Have you
been
to Salem?

“Trick or treat,” she said, as she slid onto the bench. “How
have you been, Indy?”

“Good.” I lowered my head, feeling awkward as hell.

“Uncomfortable, are you?”

I looked up to see her smiling at me. She reached across the
table, short French-manicured nails gleaming as she covered my hand with hers.
“No need to be. I know we’ve barely talked since you left the Craft, but—”

“What do you mean? I leave comments on your blog every few
days—”

“I mean
talked.
Facetime. Not
online. It’s been eight months since I’ve even seen you. Do you really think I
care what your faith is, sweetie?” She rolled her eyes. “Core Craft tenet, ‘to
each her own.’”

“You made that up,” I said, but I was smiling, relaxing. She
didn’t hate me for walking away. For not believing anymore. I was glad. Guilt
wasn’t an emotion I allowed very often, but faith of any kind had been new to
me, and leaving it unheard of. Some witches still practiced shunning of those
who walked away. Or so I’d heard.

“I made up the wording, for simplification purposes, but not
the notion. If I didn’t follow it, there would be war in my own family. Your
truth is as sacred as mine, Indira.”

“Even if my truth is that there
is
no truth?” I asked, watching her green eyes.

“Even if.” She patted my hand three times. “Now what’s going
on?”

“I’ve missed the shit outta you,” I told her.

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s all it is.” Sarcasm dripped. She flagged
down a passing waitress, who had her arms full and looked harried as hell.
“Bring us each a big fat gooey glazed donut, would you? But only when you get a
minute.”

The waitress would undoubtedly have barked at anyone else, with
a “this isn’t my table” or an “I’ll get to you as soon as I can,” sort of put
off. But she smiled at Rayne.
Everyone
smiled at
Rayne. She had the kind of personality that made people love her, no matter what
she said or did.

Or maybe it was some of her magic leaking out.

Except I didn’t believe in that anymore. I lowered my head and
caught sight of Rayne’s feet. Three-inch stilettos, black leather,
ankle-covering uppers that zipped, and open toes. “Oh, my God, I
love
your shoes.”

“Thank you. But I assume my shoes are
not
the reason you emailed me. And since I’m on my lunch break, and
hence my time is limited, it might be best to skip straight to your
problem.”

Nodding rapidly, I pulled my head back into the game. I was way
too easily distracted. And this was important. But, damn, I had to remember to
find out where Rayne had bought those shoes.

Stay on topic, Indy.

I sat up straighter, focused. “I’m sorry I waited for a problem
to force me to call. That’s pretty rotten of me. I just felt—”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“And I appreciate you giving up your lunch hour to help me out.
And I’m buying, by the way.”

“Damn right you are.” Rayne winked, and sipped, and the
waitress came back with the biggest glazed donuts I’d ever seen.

I took a small bite, followed by a sip of my herbal tea,
secretly longing for the caffeine in the cup across the table. Maybe I should
give up one vice at a time. Tea and a donut just wasn’t the same. Then I
swallowed and looked my friend in the eye. “I’ve been having a recurring dream.
Nightmare, really.”

“Ahh. All right. Well, I’m pretty good at dream
interpretation.” She shifted in her seat, crossing one gorgeous leg over the
other, settling in to listen. “It’s not surprising. I mean, you know the veil
between the worlds is thin this time of year.”

“Yeah, I know.” Samhain, the actual holiday on which Halloween
was based, was still a week away. Meaning my problem could only get worse.

“Go ahead, tell me about it.”

I nodded and tried to believe that it could get
better,
too. “I don’t think it’s actually a dream at
all.”

“No?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Rayne tilted her head, taking that in, her eyes going serious
and contemplative. The effect was ruined when she took a giant bite of the huge
donut right after her sincere, “Go on.”

“Okay. In the dream, or whatever, I’m standing on the edge of a
rocky cliff, wearing clothes from some other era, but not many of them. There’s
a man that I know is a high priest—not a Wiccan one, mind you—speaking some
language that I’ve never heard before. Two other women stand on either side of
me, dressed pretty much the same way I am. We’re very close. We love each
other—”

“
Love
each other? Is this dream
heading for a lesbian three-way?”

I stared at her blankly.

“Sorry. Trying to make you smile. I’m not used to seeing you so
freaking intense, Indy.”

“This
is
intense. Whatever it is,
it’s… Just let me finish, okay?”

She made a zipper motion over her lips.

“We have some kind of a plan, but I don’t know what it is. I
mean, in the dream I do, but I don’t remember when I wake up. Our hands are tied
behind our backs. Three men stand right behind us. I feel one of them—his hands
are on my back, and it kind of turns me on, which is really fucked up, since I
think he’s about to shove me off the freaking cliff.”

Rayne had resumed eating her donut, but she stopped in midbite,
her eyes going wider as I went on.

“The next thing I know, we’re falling. Hitting the ground.
Dying on the bloody rocks at the bottom, except things always fade to black
before that part.”

Rayne lifted her head, met my eyes. I saw rapt interest in
hers.

“It’s always the same,” I said. “We all have black hair, dark
eyes, the kind of naturally tanned skin that suggests we’re Mediterranean or
Middle Eastern or something. I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of a ritual
sacrifice. And there’s always another man, a soldier, being held nearby. He’s
been badly beaten, and he’s being forced to watch.”

Rayne blinked. “Any names floating around in your head? Any of
the words spoken by the high priest, maybe?”

I nodded hard. “The high priest’s name is Sindar. He serves a
Sun God, Marduk. I keep getting the feeling I was caught practicing magic and
that it was forbidden.”

She was nodding. “Any clues in your clothing or the
geography?”

“My clothes look like they were lifted from the wardrobe room
for
Aladdin.
From the cliff, we’re looking out over
a vast desert. I can see the shadowy outline of what I think of as my city in
the distance.”

“Anything else?” she asked, as if fascinated by the story.

“Why? Is this ringing any bells for you?”

“Just tell me the rest.”

It was. I could see that it was. “I woke up referring to the
city as Bumfuck, Egypt, and I heard a voice in my head say
Babylon.
”

Her eyes flared a little. “And that’s all?”

“No. There’s this.” I held up my hands, pushed back the draping
sleeves of my paisley smock top and revealed the rope burns on my wrists.

“Holy shit.” Rayne grabbed my hands, turned them over.

“Yeah, that was my reaction, too.”

Her gaze remained riveted on my reddened wrists until I lowered
them to my lap and let my sleeves fall back in place.

“So? What do you think?”

Rayne shook her head as if trying to clear it. “Are you
absolutely sure you didn’t get those marks some other way? Some ordinary
way?”

“Kinky sex with a bondage freak, you mean?”

“Indy…”

“There were no marks when I went to bed. They were there when I
got up. There’s not a rope in my entire apartment. No one broke in, drugged me,
bound me, raped me, untied me and left again, unless they managed to get into a
locked apartment and lock it again on the way out, chain and all. I’m telling
you, this is…it’s something else. It’s something…not natural.”

“Supernatural.”

“Yes. That.”
Which means I was wrong to
stop believing, doesn’t it?

Rayne nodded. “All right.”

“All right? What do you mean,
all
right?
You look like there’s more. Do you know what this is
about?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I’m going to do
some research, and I’ll get in touch, okay?”

She knew something. I could see she did. But she wanted to make
sure. Fine. “I can’t wait long.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to. Meanwhile, maybe we should try a
protection spell. Would you be willing to let me do that for you?”

By “we” I was sure she meant the full coven. I would have to
look all those witches in the eyes knowing that they knew I had turned my back
on their faith. On my faith. On the Goddess.

And yet, I needed something. I needed Rayne’s cooperation, if
nothing else, and sure as shit I would offend and wound her if I didn’t agree.
Besides, I’d asked for her help. I couldn’t very well refuse it when she
offered, could I?

Was there some little part of me that had missed this kind of
hocus-pocus bull, too? Yeah, probably, way down deep.

“When?”

“Tonight,” she said. “The sooner the better.”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure if I felt better for having my insane
experience validated, or whether that just made it more frightening. “Where? In
the park where you usually hold your open circles?”

“No. No, this needs to be private. There’s an occult shop in
the Village. They have a tiny backyard.” She dug in her handbag, pulled out a
pen and a business card, flipped the card over and wrote on the back. “I’ll get
the coven together. Not all of them, just the Seconds and Thirds. If this is
what I think it is, it’s serious stuff.” She slid the card across the table so I
could see the address she’d written. “Be there by 10:00 p.m., okay?”