T*Witches: The Witch Hunters

One minute Camryn Barnes was chilling in a white stretch limousine, listening to the excited babbling of her best buds as they cruised toward the gala opening of a star-studded movie in Boston.

The next, she was chilled to the bone, spinning out of control, watching helplessly as a dark car sped wildly toward the limo, set to demolish it and all its giddy passengers.

“Stop!” Cam screamed, bolting upright.

Her friends turned to stare at her openmouthed.

The limo’s black-capped chauffeur, separated from his passengers by a sliding soundproof window, hadn’t
heard her. Without so much as tapping the brakes, he continued straight for the deadly intersection.

To ordinary eyes, the road ahead looked safe.

Cam alone had seen what was coming.

Her heart lurched, her head throbbed, even as she realized that the car she had pictured was nowhere in sight.

It would be. Any minute. Cam struggled frantically to open her seat belt. Finally, leaping forward, she elbowed aside her sister and her friends Amanda and Sukari, who sat facing her on the jump seats. “You have to stop! Right now!” she ordered the chauffeur, as she pounded on the thick plastic barrier.

She was alone no longer. One other person now knew, believed, got it.

Alexandra Fielding, Cam’s identical but temperamentally opposite twin, grasped her sister’s elbow.
Easy, girl, you’re having a premonition, a vision. What do you see?
At hyper-speed, Alex sent rather than spoke the question in the crowded limo.

There’s a car heading right for us!
Cam’s desperate mind answered.

Who, where, what?
Alex demanded, as talented at “hearing” thoughts as Cam was at “seeing” what loomed ahead.

I can’t make it out that clearly,
Cam wailed telepathically,
beginning to shake now.
A dark car at a four-way intersection. It’s going to barrel through the stop sign and totally take us out!

At that moment, Alex heard it.

The roaring engine.

The squeal of tires taking a corner at hazardous speed.

The crash-car driver’s voice — no, his thoughts, furious, ferocious —
Brice Stanley, the end is near! Warlock, your time has come!

Her sharply honed senses caught a scent of something nauseating.… Eau de toxic dump site mixed with … rotten eggs. The car’s reckless driver reeked of the stuff.

It’s happening!
Cam screamed telepathically. She was sitting now, her hands trembling as she snapped shut her seat belt.
We’re gonna get rammed!

Would it be faster to
will
the thick barrier between the chauffeur and them to shatter, to telekinetically break through the soundproof divider? Alex squeezed her eyes shut and focused all her energy on the partition. She imagined it exploding. And, as it did, she screamed to the startled driver, “Now! Hit the brakes! This minute!!”

Shaken, the chauffeur responded mechanically, his hands jerking the steering wheel, his foot heavy on the brake. The limo went into a tailspin and Cam’s friends Brianna, Kristen, Beth, and Cam herself jolted forward on
their white leather seat, saved from flying forward only by their seat belts. The others, Alex, Amanda, and Sukari, who sat facing them, bounced hard, too. The car behind them screeched to a stop, inches from the rear bumper of the limo, setting off a chain of blaring horns and shouting drivers.

And the dark car Cam had seen shot through the intersection — the intersection they would have been smack in the middle of if the chauffeur hadn’t automatically obeyed Alex’s desperate command.

As the dark car swept past in a blur, Alex smelled it again, stronger this time — the rancid cheese and acid stench of a lab experiment gone wrong.

The stretch limo’s passengers had been screaming from the moment the chauffeur jammed on the brakes. As the long white car came out of its final spin, their panicked screams of “Oh, my god!” “What’s going on?” and “Help, help!” slowly faded to hyperventilating gasps of “Are you all right?” “What just happened?” and “That was close.”

Sukari, her normally confident voice reduced to a whisper, turned to Cam. “How did you know?”

“The question is …” Brianna began. Brianna Waxman, whose father had sent his limo for them, pretended that she’d fully recovered and fell into default bossy mode.
Flicking back her expensively highlighted blond hair, she demanded, “How do you
always
know?”

Beth Fish sighed. Of all Cam’s friends, Beth had been her tightest bud since kindergarten. The girl with the dark curls and knee-jerk loyalty tried to lighten the intense moment. “Cam’s mojo strikes again.”

“Mojo” her crew called it.

Not magick.

Cam tried to hang on to her shaky smile, tried to hide her distress from her buds. No matter how many times she’d “guessed right” about things, they’d never believe that she could actually picture events before they happened, that she was often overwhelmed by weird, mind-blowing, migraine-bestowing hunches, signs, and premonitions.

They wouldn’t have believed it even if she told them. She was a witch. And so was Alex.

Apple-cheeked Amanda never questioned Cam’s “amazing intuition,” or how often her hunches turned out to be on the money. “Of course she knew,” the candle-lighting, incense-burning redhead explained, as if it were completely obvious. “It’s her karma. In a past life, Cam was probably saved from some major disaster and now it’s her karma to protect others.”

Alex interjected wryly, “Everyone who thinks, ‘Who
cares how Cam knew, let’s just be glad we’re not road-kill,’ please raise her hand.”

“This is all sooo beside the point!” Bummed about being out of the spotlight for a moment, Bree rolled her emerald eyes. “We’re on our way to preview a movie that is totally slated for megahit status. Not only did my daddy produce
The Witching Hour,
but — hello! — it stars Brice Stanley, the buff, blue-eyed, two-time Academy Award-nominated Hollywood hottie! So anyone who’s thinking, ‘Mojo-shmojo, let’s just go,’ please wave those digits.”

Everyone’s hands flew up, except for Kristen Hsu’s. Bree glared at her best bud. Kristen’s olive skin was drained of color, and her hands were clapped over her mouth. “I think I’m gonna hurl right now,” she finally blurted.

“Not in my daddy’s car!” Bree warned.

Everything was moving fast. Way too fast, Cam thought, as the limo continued its journey.

Just two weeks ago, she and Alex had been racing through the haunted forests of Coventry Island. Tiny, remote, hidden from the Wisconsin mainland by fog and distance, Coventry — or Witch Island, as the locals called it — was where Cam and Alex had been born.

Though they had literally never set foot on the island until then.

Taken from Coventry when they were infants, too young to walk or even crawl, the twins were reared by different families.

Neither had known of the other’s existence for fourteen years.

Then, two weeks ago, they had returned to their mysterious birthplace — Alex practically dancing with excitement; Cam’s heels weighted with dread — for the funeral of the beloved warlock who had protected and guided them all their lives.

Lord Karsh Antayus.

Karsh had reluctantly helped separate them as infants, then mischievously maneuvered to bring them together again as teens.

Now here they were in Massachusetts, nearly a thousand miles from Wisconsin and a world away from Coventry, in a white stretch limo on their way to see a hot new movie starring Brice Stanley — who only
they
knew was a warlock.

Only they, and the maniac driving the car that had nearly killed them.

CHAPTER TWO

THE WITCHING HOUR

Bright lights crisscrossed the sky. Traffic slowed. The shrieks and screams of the frantic crowd grew deafening.

The near-miss accident had delayed the girls’ arrival, and Bree, for one, intended to make up for lost time. Clambering over Kristen’s poufy taffeta skirt, the beaming blond was first out of the limo. She could barely wait for her friends before making a mad dash toward the scene. Her stiletto heels didn’t slow her down a bit. Nor did the thousands of fans already stationed on either side of a roped-off red carpet.

The Six Pack quickly caught up with her. “How are we even gonna get close now?” Kristen whined.

Undaunted, Bree announced, “Follow the leader. I’ve got it all under control.” Approaching a security guard on crowd-control duty, she whipped out the invitation that had been sent to the lucky VIPs. “Excuse me, sir,” she confidently chirped, “I’m Eric Waxman’s daughter —”

The rent-a-cop shrugged, seriously unimpressed.

“The executive producer of the movie? Hello?” Bree pointed to the words on the invite and read, “Eric Waxman invites you —” The man was staring at the card but Bree rushed on, “See, my friends and I are supposed to be right up front. My daddy will be so upset if he doesn’t see me there, so can you just escort us?”

Cam didn’t know if it was Bree’s smile, her
chutzpah,
or the cop’s easy dupe-ability, but he guided the girls through the throng and, displacing fans who’d claimed that spot, cleared a space in the front.

Just then, someone shouted, “He’s here! He’s here — ”

He was, too. As if by magic, the brightest spotlight fell on Brice Stanley, illuminating his megawatt smile and sparkling blue eyes. Dressed in a pricey designer suit but oozing down-home charm, the charismatic star waved, turning to include everyone. “Hello, Boston!” he shouted enthusiastically. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming out to support
The Witching Hour.
You guys are the best!”

The fandemonium ramped up, and Brice started up the red carpet toward the theater. As expected of the rakishly handsome star, he stopped often to autograph pictures thrust at him, shake outstretched hands, wink at swooning admirers, accept bouquets of flowers.

While Alex silently gave Brice props for his preshow performance, it was the woman at his side who caught her attention. She whispered, “Cam, check out Brice’s date. Is she someone I should know?”

Alex was celebrity-impaired, but even Cam did not recognize the tall, serious-looking brunette at Brice’s side. Her arm was around his waist, but her keen, intelligent eyes kept scanning the crowd, as if she was looking for someone.

“Something’s off —” Cam started to say.

“What, you really expected him to bring Ileana?” Alex finished the sentence Cam hadn’t even realized she’d been thinking.

One of Coventry Island’s most brilliant and beautiful witches, Ileana was their cousin — and their moody, demanding guardian — and not so incidentally, Brice Stanley’s girlfriend.

“There’s my father!” Brianna shrieked, jumping up and down and waving madly. “Daddy, Daddy!” Her shrill screams caused Six Pack heads to turn as one. Even Cam and Alex looked over.

And there, in the roped-off VIP area, was Mr. Waxman, preening in the limelight his daughter craved. Two celebrities flanked the short, trim, tuxedoed producer — a curvy, silver-gowned brunette, who played a brilliant lawyer on one of TV’s top shows, and a stout, smiling U.S. senator, easily three times Bree’s dad’s size.

The starlet and the senator waved back at the girls; Eric Waxman nodded curtly, looking annoyed at the interruption.

Disappointed and deflated, Bree scrambled for a way to take charge again. Only this time, her moment was ruined by something far more disturbing than a diss by Daddy Dearest.

Alex heard it a microsecond before everyone else. She wheeled around to see someone swathed in black, forcing his way through the tightly packed fans.

“Ouch! Hey … what are you … what th —” Ripples of startled annoyance came from the outer edge of the crowd, getting closer, louder, and angrier as … a tall figure, his face hidden by the hood of a long, dark cape, crashed through the mob, oblivious of who he jostled, elbowed, and trampled in his path.

The hooded man was determined to barrel his way to the front, heading, in fact, toward the exact spot where Cam, Alex, and their friends were waiting to greet Brice.

Cam might have reacted sooner, had she not been hit with the sudden sweating, chills, fever, dizziness, and blurry vision that signaled something major was about to happen. Something bad.

By the time she and Alex did react, the weirdo was almost on them. He was carrying a strange, curved blade on a long handle. The crowd parted before him, people ducking instinctively, shielding their heads with their arms. But the fans who had turned out for Brice’s premiere were not his target.

Brice was.

“Warlock, your time has come!” the madman bellowed.

Waving the weapon, he rushed toward Brice — pausing for a moment at the gold rope holding the crowd back from the red carpet. “Brice Stanley is a witch!” he hollered to the assembled fans. “Brice Stanley, role model to millions, is a fraud. He lives a lie. He is a warlock and you, all of you” — the head inside the hood rotated to take in the stunned horde — “are fools, dupes, and worse, to worship this twisted man, this evil warlock.”

Maybe it was his out-of-nowhere appearance or his over-the-top ranting, but Bree suddenly began to giggle, loudly and nervously. Pointing at the man making his way toward the red carpet, she announced, “Leave it to my daddy to plant someone as a publicity ploy.”

Kristen, Beth, and Amanda turned their terrified eyes to her, wondering for a second whether she could be right.

“If that’s what’s up,” Kristen ventured, “the caped creep is a really good actor!”

“You think?” Beth was dubious but decided to go down that road. It was easier and better than other possibilities. “He’s wearing a hooded black robe and carrying a scary … a scythe, I think it’s called, or a sickle —”

“He looks just like one of my tarot cards,” Amanda broke in, unsteadily and unconvinced.

“Well, Honor Roll, what’s he supposed to be?” Bree turned to Cam for an answer. Before she could speak, Sukari nailed it.

“Death,” she said.

The hooded figure carrying the scythe made his way toward the barricade holding back the fans.

Stop him,
Cam thought she heard a voice command.

She turned to Alex. But her sister was intensely focused on the cloaked stranger.

“Did you say something?” Cam whispered.

The man whirled, his cape flaring, his weapon whistling through the air.

Alex!
Cam silently implored.
This is no stunt — it’s
the guy who almost smashed into us! He must have been rushing to get here.

Her sister was already on the case.

And so was Brice’s gal-pal, who spun suddenly, a gun in her hand.

What’s she doing with a gun?
Cam telegraphed.
There’s a crowd here. She can’t shoot.

You take the gun, I’m on the scythe,
Alex responded.

Cam reached for the necklace she always wore. Clutching her sun charm, she turned her gray-eyed gaze on the handgun in the grasp of the strange woman. As she stared at the cold steel, warmth rose in her gut, her neck grew hot, her extraordinary eyes began to sting and tear … and then the barrel of the pistol started to bubble and hiss. Under Cam’s spell, the weapon had begun to melt.

Alex was having a harder time honing in on the scythe. The moment she closed her eyes, a putrid, sulfur-tinged stench assaulted her.

“Hold it right there!” Brice’s date was hollering at the hooded man. The tip of her gun glowed red, the steel still crackling under Cam’s glare. “Security! Stop where you are!” she called.

The weird, costumed stranger paid no attention to the undercover security woman’s orders. Instead, he
brought the scythe down on the security rope, slashing it in half.

Stalking steadily toward Brice, he chanted, “Confess, warlock, cohort of witches! The Witch Hunter has come. Brice Stanley, your secret is safe no more!”

With her furious will, Alex ignored her nausea and concentrated on picturing the man’s hands … as they unwillingly loosened their grip on the scythe’s handle. She imagined that handle lifting off like the tail of a rocket… saw it sailing far above the hysterical crowd. It vaulted into the flawless blue sky, curving like the McDonald’s arches until it disappeared with a loud clatter into the alley behind the theater.

The stunned stalker whirled toward Cam and Alex. Behind them, Beth, Kristen, Bree, and Sukari held on to each other, completely weirded out.

Mouths and eyes wide open, all the fans had followed the scythe’s flight. “I knew it,” people began to say, laughing, some rising from crouched positions.
“The Witching Hour,
get it? It was a gag, a publicity stunt!”

And in that moment, though she could still see him, Alex knew he was history. The robed-and-hooded freak barreled through the crowd, sending a silent threat in Cam and Alex’s direction.
Witches, you are next. All three of you!

Woozy from their efforts, Cam and Alex turned to each other. “I heard him, Alex. He was talking to us,” Cam whispered.

“Yeah, and I… It’s so weird, Cami… I
saw
him without, like, actually
seeing
him,” Alex said. “He’s in his car right now, the one that nearly creamed us. He’s gone.”

The security woman dropped her now-useless gun, which Cam suddenly realized was not filled with metal-jacketed bullets but with tranquilizer cartridges. It had grown too hot to hold, too twisted to fire. She had no idea what had gone wrong with her weapon.

Three uniformed guards now flanked Brice Stanley. Just before they rushed him into the theater, the star shot a grateful smile at Cam and Alex.

“You so owe me,” Bree announced to the Six Pack, confident her guess was right. “I mean, you did see that, didn’t you? Thanks to my daddy, Brice Stanley just grinned directly at us!”

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