Every Witch Way But Dead Read online

  He lit the candles and incense and flipped the cards over slowly in the traditional Celtic Cross spread. Three of Swords, Ten of Swords, the Devil, the Tower, and there again, the High Priestess alongside the Queen of Cups. Damn, that witch. She’d connected her energy to his. He felt her presence the night of the new moon. The energy felt familiar somehow, and that could only mean he’d known her before.

  His lifelong obsessive-compulsive behavior was in full swing since he’d stopped taking his meds. He couldn’t afford to be distracted from the task at hand. Time flew by too quickly to explore a past life connection with this woman. The one who’d appeared in the papers last fall. The Kane woman.

  Besides, no woman would treat him the way Veronica Graile had and get away with it. The first order of business—discourage the witch from snooping around in his affairs. That meant stronger protection spells were needed. Perhaps another visit with the witch. It couldn’t hurt. Not that he cared if it did. She’d never remember him anyway, now that he’d perfected the glamour spell.

  He could come into view in the blink of an eye, then be gone as quickly. Nobody would remember a single detail about his appearance. The power within him grew stronger than ever and he’d been able to sustain the glamour for longer periods. His arousals were longer-lasting, too. Becoming overwhelming. He would need to find the release he desperately sought. Soon.

  It would all culminate around the feast of Litha, Midsummer. The time when the earth’s energy peaked. He would have his revenge, and no one would get in his way. Especially not that witch, Angelica Kane.

  * * *

  “Join us for some dinner, I’m barbequing! Come a little early. I need to discuss something with you before the concert tonight,” I sang into the receiver, leaving a short message on Marisa’s answering machine. I’d decided to tell my friend about the sexual visions and the flashes of past life memories.

  Dripping from a delightfully relaxing soak in our newly installed hot tub, I made my way upstairs to get ready, armed with a glass of Pinot Noir.

  I entered my bedroom and looked myself over, happy with the reflection in the mirror. Not too shabby for a woman in her mid-thirties. With a flurry of soft bangs to frame my oval face, my hair was silky straight—after a few passes with the hot iron. It was frizz free, the color of wheat and down to my waist. My skin had a kissed-by-the-sun glow, thanks to a few hours of sunbathing.

  My toe rings clinked on the oak stairs as I made my way down into the kitchen, where a four-paneled bay window allowed the serene view of Long Island Sound. The calm waters glistened with the summer sun’s honeyed rays.

  Barefoot, with a pristine French manicure on my little piggies, I stood staring into the refrigerator and began retrieving the ingredients to marinate the steaks. Aromatic garlic herb bread baked in my brand new bread machine, and the kitchen smelled divine. The phone rang, shattering my domestic bliss.

  I checked the caller ID before picking up. It was my son. “Hey, Danny, how’s things?”

  “Hey, Mom. There’s some girl here who needs to see Aunt Marisa. She says it’s really important.”

  “What’s her name?” I sighed heavily into the phone. No one was going to ruin my night. It’d been a while since we’d gone out, all four of us. Plus the added bonus of seeing our good friends, Marc and Veronica Arthur, perform made the night especially momentous. I didn’t want to deal with shop business, at least for one night.

  “Sally. She said her name’s Sally.”

  “Is she still there?” I asked.

  “Yeah—you wanna talk to her?”

  “Sure, put her on.”

  The voice on the other end sounded child-like. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Sally. It’s Angie, Marisa’s partner. Can I help you? Is everything all right?”

  “Um—not really, I was hoping to talk with Marisa. I hate to bother you guys on your day off.” Panic riddled her voice.

  The flood gates split opened and she sobbed on the other end of the phone. Over and over she apologized for bothering me. Her voice caught in her throat. “It’s complicated. Can I have Marisa’s number? I know she was about to ask me about something personal at our first session and I chickened out and left. But I really need to talk to her.”

  “I see. Do you have a piece of paper and a p—”

  She blurted out her story. “He hit me. Again!” she exclaimed. “He threatened me, too,” she cried out. “He broke my door down last night—the police came and I filed charges. Oh, God! Then he called me and threatened that I’d better drop the charges. I can’t get to court until Monday. I have to file for a restraining order.”

  I could hear she was having trouble breathing. “Okay, calm down a minute, Sally, who threatened you? You know what? Let me give you my address and you can come on over, all right? I’ll call Marisa and she’ll meet us here. I’m on Harbor Lane—do you know where that is? Off of Route 26A. Twenty-four Harbor Lane. Let Danny write down my cell number in case you get lost.”

  Sally whimpered on the other end, barely audible. I hung up the phone with Danny after asking him to give Sally my cell number and called Marisa again.

  She answered the phone this time, full of verve, all excited about the concert, no doubt. I hated to pop her balloon with this news, but I saw no other option. I recounted the story Sally told me.

  “She sounds a mess,” I said, pouring a bit more wine into my glass. “Bring your clothes and get dressed here.”

  “Is Will behaving? Damn where is that new lipstick,” Marisa asked. I could hear her rifling through her cosmetic drawer.

  “I borrowed it, remember? Will’s already upstairs with Jake. Tell Rich to meet you here and we’ll have dinner. I’ll ask Danny to cook up burgers later for the kids.”

  “Okay, keep the lipstick, I bought a different shade.” Marisa tersely mumbled a few off-handed remarks and hung up.

  Within ten minutes, she sat in my Tuscany inspired and newly renovated kitchen. Donned in her tee shirt and jeans, she poured herself a glass of mellow red vino. Luna and Midnight, my feline familiars, weaved in and out of her legs, demanding her attention. Cody, our little Husky, jealously barked in the penned-off area by the side of the house. “What’s this other thing you wanted to talk about?” Marisa asked. “You mentioned it on my answering machine?”

  The bread machine chimed along with the front door. I shrugged. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Marisa headed to the door and let Sally in.

  “Shit! Oh-my-gods! Sally! What happened?” Marisa put her arm around the petite, fragile blonde and led Sally into the sunny kitchen.

  “Come in, Sally,” I said. “This is the hub of my domain. My place of hearth and home.” I tried to lighten the mood. I guided her to one of the cushioned stools. “Here, take a glass of wine.” I handed her the glass and she sat.

  She smiled and clumsily sipped her wine, taking off her oversized sunglasses. Tracks of newly shed tears streaked down her raw and puffy face. A gash sat under her right eye, the skin pulled together with a butterfly bandage. She was a mess.

  “It was worse last night,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  “What’s going on?” Marisa demanded. But she knew exactly what had occurred. She’d been in an abusive relationship years ago, before she met and married Rich. One never forgets the horror and fear that accompanies it. She reached for Sally’s hand and held it.

  “Do you have a safe place to stay?” she asked, her tone softening.

  “Yes, my brother found out last night. He packed my bags and brought me to his place. He’s a fireman and friends with a lot of the local cops. I guess they told him. I’m glad.” She sipped more of the wine. I could tell it steadied her nerves, causing her hands to shake less.

  “You want to tell us what happened?” I asked.

  “I—I’d been seeing Paul for three months off and on, along with this other guy Cliff who I’ve known for about a year.”

  “Paul is the one who beat you?” Mari
sa asked.

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “With Paul, it was the type of relationship that, whenever he wanted to get together, we did. It had to be on his terms. He was fun for a while, in the beginning. He could be so charming. But like I said, only when he was in the mood.” She paused once more, taking another sip of liquid courage. “He could be a prince, but then there was this other side that’s recently shown itself. I’ve been trying to break it off with him for weeks now. He just won’t let go. It’s either feast or famine.” She sighed.

  Sally finished her wine and gazed out at the ocean. “I’m young. I don’t want to be tied down. Not yet, anyway.” She looked helplessly at Marisa and me. “But then Paul threatens to hurt himself and I feel bad for him. He lost his job recently and—and then he saw me with my friend, Cliff. Paul was livid.” She became quiet. “I think when Paul saw us together, he went over the edge. He was in the parking lot of my apartment, waiting for me. He saw Cliff and me leave for breakfast one morning—early. Cliff had spent the night. I guess it’s my fault. I let Paul believe maybe there was a chance. I shouldn’t have.” Her eyes filled again with tears.

  “Hey, whatever you did, you don’t deserve this,” Marisa insisted. “It’s a trick, Sally, he’s not going to hurt himself. Besides, you’re young and you can see as many guys as you like. It’s okay when men have a lot of girlfriends, but when women do—oh—it gets me so angry!”

  I whispered, “Okay, Ms. Women’s Rights, calm down.”

  Sally continued. “Last night I’d done some ritual work with a friend and Paul tracked me down afterwards. He had a knife. He threatened to kill himself, that he would cut his wrists.” She sobbed, her shoulders shaking. “I told him I was with a girlfriend, but he found out I was with a guy. That’s when he beat me.”

  I handed her more tissues. “For him to even say he’s going to kill himself is a lie, it’s a ploy. He wants to manipulate you. Sally, you must stay away from him at all costs. Do you understand? Do you see? He threatens to cut himself and instead beats the shit out of you,” I said. “Did you tell your brother about the knife?”

  I cringed at the mention of the knife. Images of my premonitions rushed to the forefront of my mind.

  “No—I didn’t want him to think I was a sucker or something. Besides he’s got a bad temper,” she answered, head down and shoulders slumped. “Big brother, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know.” Having a big brother of my own in southern California, I knew how protective one could be. “But he loves you and should know how serious this guy is. Stay away from him, Sal.” I glanced at the clock. It was five-thirty.

  “Yeah, he’s seriously sick,” Marisa huffed.

  Sally walked over to the sink and placed her empty wine glass in it. “I was wondering, Marisa, if I could come for a healing Monday. I know you guys are normally closed.”

  Marisa smiled. “Well, you’re in luck—our summer hours are recently extended, so we only get Sunday off.”

  I took the bread out of the machine and covered it with fresh linen. “Why don’t you stay and have supper with us?” I asked. “We have the concert later, but you can stay for a bite to eat.”

  “Oh, yeah—the concert. I have tickets, too. I was supposed to go with Cliff, but he can’t make it.” She fought back the tears, wiping them away as a few snuck down her ivory skin.

  “A little fresh cover-up and some powder, no one will notice,” I offered. “I would tell him, Sal, he should know. It seems this guy—Paul? It sounds like he’s a loose cannon. Whoever you’re involved with should be aware of that.”

  Marisa took out five plates and began to set the old oak table in my dining room, which was right off the kitchen, making an L shape.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Cliff especially tends to be overprotective.”

  The late afternoon light beamed through the multi-colored sun catchers that stuck to the french doors. They were dazzling in addition to being functional, keeping the sparrows from colliding into the glass windows like little kamikazes. Too bad people didn’t come with warning signs. It would be easier to spot them with a sun catcher plastered on their forehead, declaring “abuser”. And Sally reminded me of a defenseless, tiny sparrow.

  “I don’t want to impose, Angelica. Really—I think you’re right. I’m going to go to my brother’s and try to call Cliff and see if his plans changed,” she whispered, sounding very defeated.

  I hoped for her sake that Cliff was a stand-by-your-lady kind of guy. I had the feeling he was, although I really didn’t know him. But my instincts led me to believe he was loyal. Perhaps even to a fault.

  “Thanks for the wine and your advice.” She tried to smile, but her lip pinched in pain. “Maybe I’ll see you at the concert.”

  The three of us walked to Sally’s car, a midnight blue Explorer a few years older than mine and in excellent condition. The air was heavy with the scent of lilacs that bloomed along my driveway. I breathed in the floral aromas.

  Sally gave us thumbs up as she got behind the wheel. “Soon it will be summer—time for a new me. No more being a doormat, I’m done,” she exclaimed. “Tomorrow, in fact! Wow, time flies.”

  “That’s the spirit, Sal,” I said.

  “I’ll see you Monday.” Marisa waved as Sally slowly pulled out of the driveway.

  “Poor girl, did you notice her aura?” I asked, waving.

  “How could I not? Very muddy.” Marisa sighed as we headed inside.

  * * *

  We had VIP tickets and one of the perks included special valet parking, thank the Goddess. I had on my Jimmy Choo shoes, which had a heel, something I’m not used to wearing. My feet were already protesting against the torture chamber I’d strapped them into.

  People looked over at us as we made our way to our third row, center seats. I felt like we were celebrities. This wasn’t Jon’s or Rich’s, our husbands’, preferred music, but they were good sports about it. They favored the strictly rock ‘n’ roll Marc Arthur, the icon from the acclaimed Irish rock band, Prism. Jon thought we were going to see another Yanni, whom I adore. The guys were in for a surprise.

  Nestled in our seats under a canopy of crystalline stars, Marisa and I speculated on what I’d been silently mulling over in the car. Both of us had been uncharacteristically quiet, each drifting along on our own stream of wild imaginings concerning Sally’s dilemma.

  “I think Sally is the one your disembodied voice is warning you about,” she declared, touching up her lipstick.

  I nodded absently. We listened to the woman on stage singing. She was oblivious to the audience below looking for their seats, meeting up with friends, chatting away.

  “You really think it could be Sally? I’m just surprised I didn’t get any impressions when she was at the house.” We clapped as the Gothic-looking woman on stage finished her song. She then declared how indebted she was to open for such talented musicians and hawked her CD on sale outside at the merchandise booth. Her voice had a grainy, raspy quality to it. I liked it. I decided to check out her CD on a bathroom break.

  “It’s one thing seeing spirits, it’s entirely different playing a serious, knock-you-on-your-ass game of charades with them.” I grabbed my shawl and wrapped it across my back. “I don’t think it’s her. It’s got to be someone I already know.”

  “When she comes in for her treatment Monday I’ll see if I get any vibes.”

  We clapped again as the warm-up singer disappeared behind the thick curtains. Marisa pulled out a small carafe of wine from her large, velvet tote. Along with the wine, she grabbed four plastic cups.

  “Merlot, good choice.” Jon laughed, pulling out a bottle of Shiraz from my bottomless pit of a handbag.

  We sipped our wine as we watched the band’s crew spring onto the stage with all the quickness of elves on Christmas Eve. They changed microphones and brought out a variety of backdrops, wheeled drums and bongos along with other percussion instruments. Working precisely and with intensity, they carried chimes, bel
l lyres, timbales and, of course, a gong.

  Twilight fell, a magical time when day unfolded into night. The lights dimmed and the effect of a thousand candles set the milieu for our musical excursion. You could feel the excitement throbbing in the air.

  The theater was thrust into a jet-black void. A solitary beacon rained down and in the center stood Ronnie Graile, a bewitching beauty swathed in white. Her lustrous tresses of tawny hair tumbled past her shoulders in a cloud of ringlets. A gardenia sat delicately behind her left ear. With measured fluidity, she lifted the microphone to her plum-shaded lips.

  “Darkness falls upon my heart—memories fade away,” she began to sing.

  The crowd went wild as her husband of four years joined her on the stage, plucking at the strings of his Martin acoustic guitar. Yin and Yang, he in black against her snowy form.

  “Promises made another day—why must we be apart…”

  From behind Ronnie, three young beauties emerged, Becky, Diane and Karen. Her back-up singers joined them, adding wistful harmonies to her heart-wrenching lyrics. The crowd roared and the percussionists picked up the tempo. The lights changed from the dim illusion of candles to streaks and flashes of white. Our very own lightning storm played out up close.

  People leapt out of their seats and clapped along with the merry minstrels. The air pulsed with magick. It was palpable, electric and as tangible as the night sky and the tranquil waters upon which the stage floated.

  The rest of the band joined in. The violin wailed against the melodies of the keyboards. The pace quickened and Ronnie danced to the beat, her tambourine in hand, twitching out the rhythm. Her hair swirled around her. Layers of the gauzy fabric of her skirts enclosed her in veils of white.

  Stage lights flashed in reds and gold. She beamed, a brilliant star on stage whose refulgence dimmed the sun itself. Her sisters in song kept the melodies going higher and higher. Then, stillness.