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  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  512 Forest Lake Drive

  Warner Robins, Georgia 31093

  Every Witch Way But Dead

  Copyright © 2007 by B. Ella Donna

  Cover by Anne Cain

  ISBN: 1-59998-464-4

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2007

  Every Witch Way

  But Dead

  B. Ella Donna

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated with much love to two of the

  strongest and most courageous women I know; my mother,

  words cannot convey the love and admiration I hold for you

  and my sister, MaryAnn; I wish with all my heart you were here.

  I know you are in spirit.

  To my father, you taught me the greatest lesson, find out what it is you love to do and figure out a way to make a living doing it.

  Last, but not least, my husband and children,

  for their patience, I love and thank them.

  To infinity and beyond.

  Chapter One

  Citronella ~ Cymbopogon nardus, from which oil of citronella is derived. It is used in perfumes and soaps as well as an insect repellent. The plant, with bluish green, lemon-scented leaves, is cultivated in Java and Sri Lanka. ~ From Angelica Kane’s Workshop on Herbs.

  Like a restless spirit roaming the landscape, fog drifted in, abandoning the dark waters behind. A buoy moaned in the distance, shattering the silence. The first slice of the new moon dangled in the inky sky. It was a time for magickal conjuring.

  The only light in his dank apartment came from black candles as they cast peculiar shadows upon a collage of photos tacked to the otherwise dreary walls. All were of a striking woman with sparkling peridot eyes. For a moment, the man in the darkness seductively traced the outline of her face with his finger.

  I loved you, but you chose the wrong man.

  Like Narcissus mesmerized by his reflection in a pool of water, he stared at the manic blue eyes in the mirror. A day's worth of stubble obscured his lightly tanned skin. Sandy curls softened the hard lines of his face. Classically handsome, some would say.

  Candlelight flickered and fitfully divided the shadows in his sparse dwelling. The night revealed nothing and only the sliver of the crescent moon peered down.

  As the flame lit the remaining candle, his mind played over the last time he’d seen her. He cursed as the fire licked his finger, snapping his attention back to the present. In his tortured psyche, the burnt skin was her fault.

  “Smitten, battered, haunted, torn. I stab at thee as if a thorn. Suffer now! I will not wait. With this pin, I seal your fate. Pins so sharp you can’t abate. I strike at thee with utmost hate. Smitten, battered, haunted, torn. I curse you now, your pain is born.”

  In the center of his room lay a small doll. A lock of her blonde hair twisted around the miniature toy, bound with a thick black ribbon. He breathed in her essence. Thoughts of her consumed him. He picked up the poppet and stroked its face.

  You will never find anyone who loves you as much as I do.

  Tiny crystals of perspiration framed his angelic face and glimmered in the candlelight. Silver metal caught the flames as they danced. He lifted his ritual knife higher in the air and continued his chant.

  “Smitten, battered, haunted, torn. I stab at thee as if a thorn. With this pin, your fate is sealed. Your deepest fears are now revealed. Smitten, battered, haunted, torn. I curse you now, your pain is born!”

  He brought the knife down and sliced the palm of his hand. He made a fist and squeezed. Blood dripped from his clenched hand onto the doll, staining its hair and face, streaking down like tears from its dead eyes.

  Tenderly, he massaged the blood over the silken plastic, felt himself stiffen—not yet, not yet—took a deep breath and focused once more on his bloody task.

  Her face looked back at him, if only in his mind, as he stroked the knotted hair.

  Oh, how I loved you.

  An image of her plump, moist lips and slender neck filled his mind. His gaze trailed down to a full bosom that strained against the fabric of her lacy top. She reached out for him. She wanted him. He knew that much, but she could not admit it to herself. He set her down and ran his hands over her most intimate places.

  You will be mine.

  No longer was it a doll.

  In his fantasy, the poppet was her.

  The woman who’d captivated him, woven her spell around him and who’d left without a word. The mere thought of her sent him reeling. He had to take her. His lust commanded it.

  “Smitten, battered, haunted, torn. I stab at thee as if a thorn. Suffer now I will not wait. With this pin, I seal your fate. Pins so sharp you can’t abate. I strike at thee with utmost hate.” The crazed thoughts that plagued his tormented soul caused his hands to tremble while he pierced the doll with thick pins aimed straight at its heart.

  He clenched his jaw with fierce emotion, swaying back and forth. He raised his arms upward continuing, “Smitten, battered, haunted, torn. I curse you now. Your pain is born! Smitten, battered, haunted, torn. My love for you has turned to scorn. All those around that you hold dear, will know no peace, but only fear!”

  His muscular arm slashed the knife across the throat of the poppet. Desire carried his craving to overflowing as he and the spell reached their climax. He shuddered. The night wind blew through his windows, leaving him in isolation and darkness.

  * * *

  In the predawn light after a night of fitful sleep, I’d finally succumbed to quiet slumber. Upon awakening, I grabbed my dream journal and jotted the images and feelings that were still clear in my memory. This had become a ritual of mine since my teenage years, writing in a daytime diary and nighttime journal. This was my latest entry.

  In the distance, a sharp wedge of silver glittered before me, piercing the shadows. Was it the moon?

  I struggled to catch my breath, but the air was thick and fetid. Stranded in a murky fog, I groped for anything to keep from free-falling. I reached forward, but my hands lashed out at empty space.

  My throat tightened. It was so cold. Where was I and why couldn’t I breathe? I plunged into the deluge of darkness. My mouth opened to scream, but there was only silence. Waves of fear rolled over me. I was dragged down by the undercurrents and into the void.

  Flashes appeared from out of the abyss, popping like a frenzied photographer’s camera. A creamy white specter materialized before me then evaporated in a cloud of crimson blood. The edge of a blade wavered in the mist then retreated.

  My eyes adjusted to the dark, but I saw nothing. Nevertheless, I sensed a presence. I worked my way into the deepest recesses of my unconscious, hoping to find a clue, a key that would unlock this mysterious scenario. There was only darkness and a cold chasm. I had lost my way.

  The last notation bothered me most of all. This is not a nightmare and I cannot wake up…

  * * *

  “It happened again, Jon,” I announced to my husband while dining al fresco. Regret washed over me
the moment I opened my mouth. I shouldn’t have brought this up, not now. Not so soon after the last bout with nightmares.

  “Bad dream or vision?” Jon asked.

  I drew a star in the condensation on my wine glass. “It felt like a precognitive dream, something yet to come.” I looked across our deck to the bay. It was so peaceful.

  “When? Recently?”

  “After you left for work this morning. I finally fell back to sleep and—” I let the rest of the sentence fade away like mist on the water. I could feel his penetrating gaze. It was an unasked for gift of mine.

  He sounded patronizing when he finally spoke—another gift I had. It was like having perfect pitch. Only I heard the subtle undertones of what people really meant when they spoke.

  “I know it’s happening more frequently, Angelica. I heard you crying out in your sleep the other night. You didn’t remember, so I didn’t push the issue. I didn’t want to upset you. You seem really on edge lately.”

  “It’s these visions, or nightmares, whatever they are. They’re different than the others I’ve had. They’re more ominous.”

  He probed his plate and picked out the olives. He speared one onto his fork and fed it to me. “Exactly what do you mean by ominous?”

  “Like, ‘something wicked this way comes’ ominous.” You see, I’m a psychic. When I spoke to Jon about the world of the unseen, it was perfectly normal.

  We ate our herb grilled chicken and baby greens in silence. The unasked questions flitted around in the early evening air like fireflies on a hot summer night. When we finished, he asked, “D’you want to talk about what happened? You have any clue what these nightmares—or visions—mean?” He glanced over at me while I finished my wine.

  “Refill, please.” I held out my glass to him. “I’m not really sure what the visions could mean. I’m going to have Marisa do a tarot spread for me. Maybe she’ll get some information from the cards. I can’t be objective enough.”

  Jon poured more wine into my glass. “I find it interesting you think Marisa can be objective. She’s like your sister, for God’s sake,” Jon said, shaking his head as he cleared the plates off the table.

  I moved over to a lounge chair and rested my head on the overstuffed pillows. Running my hand through my hair, I examined the ends, assessing how many were split.

  "What do you think I should do?” I asked. “I don’t really have all that many options, you know.” Truth be told, I hadn’t been totally honest with my husband. There was more to it than just nightmares. I was scared, but now was not the time to discuss my fears.

  My husband stretched his six-foot-plus frame in the warm night air. “This is your area of expertise, James. I’ll stick to building homes.”

  James was one of his nicknames for me. Jon dubbed me James after seeing the famed psychic James Van Praagh on television years ago. It really stuck after my husband saw an episode of Ghost Whisperer. He also calls my breasts the Charmed Ones, but that’s another story.

  “Either Risa or Oudia’ll be able to clarify thing—I hope,” I said, referring to my friends.

  He sounded sincere when he said, “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  “I am, too. Anyway, they’ll be more than happy to dive into their cauldron of spells and magick. I’m sure they’ll conjure up an answer.” I sighed.

  “Your friends’ll manage somehow, of that I have no doubt,” Jon agreed.

  I stared long and hard at my husband before I spoke, knowing I was about to open an old can of slimy worms.

  “I wish you’d take what I do more seriously.” There, I said it.

  “I do take it seriously, I just don’t understand it. I haven’t had the experiences you have. I didn’t see ghosts when I was a kid. I was busy being a kid.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I countered, taking my own defensive stance.

  “You were always more responsible than me, and you know it.”

  “Why? Because I didn’t have an affair?” I hadn’t intended for that to slip out—or had I?

  With a reddened face, he blew out a gust of air. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

  “I guess not. You wouldn’t, either, if it were done to you. That’s my point, though. You always make sure there’s a certain amount of distance between us. You’ve never let me get totally close to you and you certainly don’t try to involve yourself in things that’re important to me,” I rallied back at him. “You had that affair to create a distance.”

  “What about the shop? I built that old barn over for you and your business.” Just the way he said “your business” clued me in to cut my losses and end this conversation. I knew he’d wished I’d stayed home instead of opening my shop, Sacred Treasures, with Marisa. My eldest boys, Steven and Danny, were out of high school, and Amber, our daughter, was old enough to watch over Jake, who was already ten going on thirty. The timing was perfect.

  He sounded agitated now as he volleyed back. “And I wish you’d stop talking to your friend Ivy. You’re beginning to sound like a psychologist.”

  I drained my glass. “You’re right, Jon. Forget it.” There was no point dredging up this tired, worn out argument. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I promised I wouldn’t and I did. I apologize.”

  He smiled at his small victory. Now I was patronizing him. “So you don’t think these are the same as the premonitions you had last year?”

  “Definitely not. Besides, I don’t think there’re any lost local children. Not that I’m aware of,” I mused, referring to the lost little boy Marisa and I had located last fall.

  There’d been a variety of reactions to the “Psychic Detectives of Sacred Treasures”, as the local paper dubbed us last autumn.

  “Just when the publicity has simmered down, it’s going to flare up again.” Jon smiled, teasing me. His stubble scraped my skin as he gave me a tender peck on my cheek. “And I’m the one who’s sorry. I know I’ve screwed up in the past.”

  I bit my tongue and simply nodded. Whenever I thought of his affair, the anger flared like it had happened yesterday.

  “If anything comes of these visions, it’ll be good for your business,” he conceded, “but the guys at work are starting to call me Darren. You sure you can’t wiggle that cute freckled nose?” Jon was a big fan of Bewitched, too, thanks to Nic at Night.

  “Sorry, Derwood.” I smiled. “I’m not going to borrow trouble—I’ll see what Marisa comes up with,” I said, valiantly trying to sound upbeat. My husband just looked at me and groaned as he headed inside.

  But the premonitions plagued me. I could only imagine what these sadistic impressions meant, and my imagination could be quite elaborate. Never before had I experienced anything quite like these preternatural visions, and they chilled me to my very core.

  Learning to trust my intuition was a hard lesson for me. Having my circle sisters around for support afforded me the luxury to begin to believe. I only hoped the sense of foreboding was my own insecurities and not what my gut was telling me. Karma. Dark and demanding its due.

  I followed Jon inside and retired to the upstairs master bathroom, turning on the peaceful sounds of Celtic harp music on my CD player. My nighttime ritual included lighting a stick of sandalwood incense along with a dozen pink candles then slowly settling into the soothing waters of a relaxing bubble bath.

  I piled my hair high atop my head like a soft swirl ice cream cone. The hot water melted away the tensions of the past few days as I sank deeper into the comfort of the herb-infused bath. The warmth of the water invited me in. I descended deeper and let go of the day’s stresses. Slowly I breathed. Each deep breath filled my lungs with nourishing prana. I allowed the music to take me away. My eyes closed as I drifted farther and farther to a distant place where it was peaceful and quiet. I nestled in a place where time did not exist.

  A magic carpet of gossamer clouds whisked me away. I melted into the sensations, swaddled in the cocoon of the mellifluous harps of Ce
ltic Pleasure. Specks of color danced across the inner screen of my mind.

  They were random at first, then focused on one area, the center of my forehead. My third eye. It was there I placed my attention while waiting for any guidance that might come from my spirits or higher self. Serenity embraced me as I listened for the messages.

  My quietude was short lived.

  Hot, searing pain penetrated my throat. The muscles of my shoulders and neck constricted slowly, like a snake would, applying slight pressure with every breath. I tried to dislodge the pair of invisible hands that clutched around my throat. The rosy lights faded to an agonizing darkness and the warmth that had enveloped me turned frosty.

  Wrenched into a vortex of disturbing energies, I cried out. But all attempts to scream were futile. My heart raced. A thousand demon drummers pounded out their rhythm inside my skull. I noticed another presence with me. I struggled to see, but couldn’t penetrate the veil of energy. I gagged. I attempted to call out to it. I strained to listen, but there were no sounds except my own gurgling. My efforts were in vain and panic overtook me.

  I was determined to find out what was happening, but I was helpless. That in and of itself angered me, thrusting me forward in my quest to solve this mysterious and malevolent vision.

  The knife.

  The blood.

  The pain.

  The specter flashed in front of me once more, obscuring my vision. A violent strobe burst and the outline of a woman's form appeared from the vapors.

  Knife, blood, pain.

  The energies pulled me down. I heard a voice pleading, Help her! No one can hear me. Please, you’re my only hope! My body shook in the water, although the temperature was warm, even hot.

  Darkness, then blinding light.

  Knife, blood, unbearable pain. It flashed like an old black and white movie with only the vibrant scarlet bleeding through. Then complete obscurity.