Every Witch Way But Dead Read online

  The audience went wild with applause, hoots and whistles.

  Like a river, the band flowed flawlessly into another song. The ladies on stage put floral wreaths in their hair, wrapped themselves in silken shawls and danced a sultry jig.

  Ronnie took the microphone and the next set of lyrics began.

  “The woods were dark on the night when the veil grows thin…

  They met in a circle, dancing the new year in…

  Bonfires light up the darkened hills, as we honor those who have gone.

  With you in my heart, I know that I must go on…”

  Fans tossed roses upon the stage as she sang a ballad of love and loss, called “Samhain”, verbally tugging at everyone’s heartstrings with her tender vocals and chaste countenance. Her face was inscribed with the personal pain this ballad reflected. The song must have held a special place in her heart. Tears escaped her eyes, visible on the large screens that stood on either side of the stage.

  For the next two hours it went on, a vacation of sorts, taken to another time and place, of gypsies and star crossed lovers, of Camelot and wizards. The crowd cried out, “Merlin’s Lament!” Everyone wanted to hear the instrumental written by Marc Arthur. Like the gracious host he was, he obliged with the tune, a heavier rock piece and one the crowd ate up then wanted more. With his customary display of dramatic bravura, Marc played on.

  When the set ended, Ronnie announced, “This next song is a new one Marc and I recorded just last month for our new album. The album will be out next week.” She winked at her husband. “We hope.” She smiled, taking a rose from the ground and inhaling its sweet aroma. “It’s called ‘Gypsies’ Road’.”

  “Under the star-cast velvet skies…

  She travels this road…

  Too often paved with lies…

  This time she journeyed all alone…

  The cold autumn winds, chilled her to the bone…”

  “They’re so great live,” Marisa said, pouring more wine.

  “Yes, it’s nice for a change to go to a concert and have the artist sound like her albums,” I agreed. “I mean CDs.”

  The stage had been meticulously surrounded with flowers and backdrops of castle walls, sconces and bonfires in the distance. They truly captured the flavor of days gone by. The entire band wore authentic gypsy garb. At the end of the song, the band played music from Marc’s days with Prism, which our husbands thoroughly enjoyed. Marc picked up his Fender guitar and wailed, bringing the crowd to a fever pitch. Ronnie’s voice transformed from ethereal and angelic to a gritty hard rock without any apparent effort at all.

  “Come dance with me, under the stars…

  And we’ll drink a toast to those near and far…”

  The audience stood, hands held out as if toasting a glass of champagne. A machine began cranking out tiny bubbles from behind the frenetic drummer. Everyone went wild, shouting the lyrics. “Cheers!”

  Immediately they went into the finale, “The Lady of the Lake”.

  “I love this song!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. We sang along, slightly off key while reaching the crescendo.

  Ronnie sang, “Between the mists—parts the veil—all hail…”

  She held out the microphone to the audience and we sang in response.

  “The Lady of the Lake!”

  On the lyrics went and around Ronnie whirled, an apparition in white. She seemed to be looking off to the side, a bit preoccupied with something off stage. Not missing a beat, she kept singing. She caught her husband’s eye and held out her hand as if to signal something. He nodded in the direction of one of the back-up singers.

  The crowd seemed oblivious, lost in the melody. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristled, the flesh on my arms started to chill even though the temperature was a balmy seventy-four degrees.

  “The Lady of the Lake!” the crowd roared. From behind Veronica and her husband, one of their singers came forward. Ronnie gave a diminutive nod to her, hardly perceptible. The dark-haired beauty, Diane, held a two-foot sword in her hand.

  That’s when I began to feel incredibly lightheaded. A humming began in my ears, sounding like a mosquito. I realized it was in my head, not outside of it. It grew louder in an instant, to the point of distraction.

  I’d been standing and clapping along with the audience. All at once, I felt my life force being sapped by an imperceptible, voracious vampire.

  I was caught in the vortex of this mysterious energy. I tried to get my husband’s attention, but I couldn’t move. Stuck in the grip of this nameless force, I watched in shock. My visions, bit by bit, became all too real.

  Diane clutched the short sword in her hand. She raised it above her head and stood by Ronnie’s microphone, representing the Lady of the Lake. My head spun uncontrollably, nausea gripped my stomach with malevolent, bony fingers. Diane pressed down upon a foot pedal to release the special effects mist, the sword in her hand held high.

  I heard myself shout. “N-no!” Time stood still.

  Another voice in my head blared, “Help her!” Sparks flew as tiny flames shot out from the base of the microphone and foot pedal.

  Diane’s face and body were petrified, her eyes opened wide. Her body trembled with the electricity that surged through her.

  It took a few seconds, but felt like an eternity. Abruptly there was smoke and horrified gasps, then more sparks. Security teams descended in a wave of black shirts, like a fog that lingered in dark corners, searching for a storm.

  The electrical surge caused the stadium lights to flicker and lose power for a few moments. Diane’s lifeless form lay on the theater floor, the color of despair.

  Screams filled the air. Becky and Karen tried to rush over to their partner. The security teams and bodyguards blocked their path, then led them away and backstage. Marc whisked Ronnie to their dressing room. The look on his face registered awareness that it could have been his wife on the ground. It should have been. After all, she was the Lady of the Lake.

  Marisa gasped. “This was their new finale, they’d just added it to the show. Ronnie told me tonight would be the first time they’d be performing it. Before the European tour began,” she explained in a horrified whisper.

  That was the last thing I remembered hearing.

  * * *

  Voices phased in and out.

  “Wake up! Angie, are you okay?”

  Faces slowly materialized from the indigo depth. The power came back and lit the area. Marisa, Jon and Rich stared down at me. I shivered uncontrollably and fell back into unconsciousness.

  It’s not your fault, I heard another voice say. In the background, there was…what? Sobbing?

  What happened? I heard myself ask.

  You saved my daughter.

  Your daughter? What is going on?

  I came to you. To ask for your help. No one else heard my pleas, but you did.

  A lot of good it did, I thought.

  Another voice rose from the wailing. It was meant to be, it lamented. I barely made out the spirits of two female apparitions gracefully floating upward. Then there was nothing.

  * * *

  The stench of ammonia filled my nose and I bolted upright, waving away the source of the offending odor. My husband looked down at me, half-smiling, half terrified. “Are you all right, sweetheart? Can you talk?”

  I nodded. “I’m okay.”

  I glanced around and tried to gain my bearings. Okay, I was still in my seat, still in the theater. An EMT had used smelling salts to bring me back to consciousness.

  Much of the crowd was gone and police clustered on stage taking pictures. Crime scene investigators milled around collecting evidence, and detectives questioned the security teams of both the band and the theater. Someone with a jacket that had “Coroner” on the back walked toward the lifeless singer. I felt nauseous.

  Tears welled in my eyes and trickled down my cheeks. I realized I’d witnessed the departure of a soul from this plane of existence to the next.
I was heading for overload. It was all so surreal. This can’t be happening, I kept thinking. I sobbed uncontrollably.

  I peered around and saw the police and that poor girl’s unresponsive body on the stage. This was the real deal. No nightmare this time. Was this my vision come to pass?

  “Can someone get some water?” Jon called out.

  Marisa went into her purse and pulled out a small bottle of Kabala water. She smirked, shrugging. “I ordered a case—I was curious.”

  I gratefully drank it. Whether it had mystical powers or not, I felt better after drinking it.

  Rich asked, “Can you walk? They want to clear this place out.”

  I reached down, slipped off my sandals, then slowly stood.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  We made our way to the exits and stopped to give our names to the officers at the gate. Rich went to get the car. I leaned on Jon. Intermittently, tears escaped my eyes. I was in shock. My body quivered.

  Once I got inside the car, the smell of new leather calmed my frazzled nerves with its nouveau aromatherapy. “I saw her spirit,” I finally said.

  Jon sat next to me and wiped away renegade tears that slid down my face.

  From the front seat, Marisa turned to look at us. “Who? Diane?” She handed me a tissue.

  “Yeah, Diane,” I said, as if speaking her name held some mystical power that would make it all a nightmare and not gruesome reality. “How long was I unconscious?”

  “Altogether? About thirty minutes, give or take. You were fading in and out for a while there. At least a half an hour went by before you really woke up,” Jon reported as Rich drove through the parking lot and onto the highway.

  “Did Ronnie lose her mom?” I asked my friend. I fought back the dizziness that threatened to engulf me once more.

  “Mmm… Yes, about two years ago, I think. Why?” Marisa asked.

  I stared out of the window, lost in thought. “It had to be her.” I sighed.

  “You want to talk about it?” my husband asked, holding me close to him.

  “The visions—this was what the visions must have been about. I saw the sword…except in the premonition it looked like a knife to me, and then the suffocating. Like I couldn’t breathe.” More tears fell. “I should have known,” I said angrily. “I felt something was…off. Damn!”

  “How? How could you? If you went any deeper into that vision, who knows if you would have ever returned?” Jon hugged me tight against him. “From what you and Marisa have said, you can’t be too careful. These aren’t the candy-coated visions of finding kittens and little lost boys.”

  I’d asked the question I’d been wondering about most of my life. “Then why get them if I can’t help? I don’t get it. Why?”

  “This is all fairly new to you. Yes, you’ve had experiences before, but these seem much more intense. Besides, how do you know you didn’t help?” Jon calmly asked.

  “He’s right,” Marisa added. “These are much more powerful insights you’re receiving now than, say, even five years ago. Don’t go into the blame-game, baby cakes. Everything happens for a reason.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I huffed.

  “No, not really,” Marisa sadly concluded.

  * * *

  He plowed his way into the poorly lit room, kicked the debris out into the hall and slammed the door. He felt for his lighter on an end table, next to a large wax skull. Methodically, he lit the black candles once again. Tossing crumbled papers from under the bed, he finally found his leather-bound journal of spells. Some he’d found on the Internet and others he’d written himself. He flipped through the earmarked pages until he came upon the one he sought.

  From the back of the notebook, he took out her picture. It was of them. The man she’d left him for, and her. He gripped his ritual knife in one hand, the picture in the other and carved a heart on each of the lover’s chest.

  “With this knife, I stab your heart, soon your love so near will part.” He lit the incense sitting in a brazier and encircled the photo with the smoke as he spoke. “With this knife I stab your mind, soon insanity is all you’ll find.”

  He walked the circle, his pace tempered, raising the energy with each pass.

  His blue eyes never left her face.

  * * *

  A low moan disturbed my sleep. The events of the evening played repeatedly in my head. I couldn’t erase the image of Diane from my mind. That poor woman, her family must be devastated.

  I got out of bed, turned the air conditioner to a cooler setting and poured myself a glass of water. I felt unusually warm. I made my way over to the window, pushed back the sheer curtains and stared at the night sky. I found the big dipper and watched the stars slowly turn to lambent flames. A cloud of dense energy surrounded me, pulling my thoughts awry.

  * * *

  His hunger for her grew with each ritual he performed, and this was no different.

  Her green eyes looked back at him while he rocked over the photo. He waved the incense round and round, encircling him. “With this knife I stab your heart, soon your love so near will part.” He repeated those words. “With this knife I stab your heart, soon my love, we’ll never part.”

  The room grew hot with passion. The energy raised from the spell-work was forceful as thoughts of sex and death mingled together. He reached the apex and soon would need to find relief.

  * * *

  I was lost in the beauty of the flames, and the heat consumed me. The ache I’d experienced a few days before returned. I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to words of a ritual just outside the periphery of my consciousness. I tried to make out the rhyme, but couldn’t.

  Tossing and turning, I wrapped my arms around my husband, nuzzling closer. My hips moved rhythmically against him and I caressed him, softly moaning as my own passions heightened. His did as well.

  “Mmm, you’re frisky tonight,” he murmured, turning over.

  “I need you, Jon.”

  “I’m beat, sweetheart.” He sighed, but his body responded otherwise.

  My skin was tortured and only his touch could quell the rising crest of desire. I was lost in another time and all my mind wanted was to satisfy the flesh. I rolled him on his back and climbed on top.

  “Now, now. Isn’t that so much better?” I whispered, rocking back and forth.

  “Oh, yeah,” Jon agreed.

  “Soon my love—we’ll never part—” I muttered over and over, faster as I drove him deeper inside me.

  I was entranced and no longer in my bedroom. In the darkness, I noticed a circle of candles around me. Jon cupped my breasts, but a stranger’s hands touched them.

  I closed my eyes and found myself back in the candlelit room. The man’s face I gazed at melted from my fair-haired husband’s to an exotic, dark-complexioned lover. I tried to bring my consciousness back to the present, but my body betrayed me. I wanted only to be satisfied.

  “I need you, Jamila.” The stranger sighed.

  I sensed the tortured desire that raged within him. Timing his moment of climax, my phantom lover called out my name, only it wasn’t…

  “Jamila!”

  “With this knife, soon my love, Khaldun,” I moaned, but Jon couldn’t hear me. He was lost in his own passion and release.

  Chapter Four

  Hessonite, or the cinnamon stone, provides courage and faith. It is a form of garnet and bestows bravery and confidence in self, providing the wearer with assurance. It also aids in travel to the etheric realms. It is a particularly good stone for those dedicated to service. ~ From Angelica Kane’s class on Gem Power.

  The following morning Ouida called, curious about what had transpired at the concert. I learned early on that my circle friends also acted as a phone tree. A super information highway.

  “I don’t understand, Oui, it’s the weirdest thing. I’m getting what I think are past life memories. And at the most…inappropriate times,” I said into my cell phone.

  I could ima
gine her one arched eyebrow as she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “When Jon and I are…you know,” I whispered.

  I was pretty certain both eyebrows were raised now. “Oh, that could be a problem—but not as unusual as you might think,” she said.

  “It’s happened to you?”

  “Yes, you see, your chakras are open and…”

  There was a gentle knock on my door. “I’m sorry, Oui, I gotta go. One of my kids is at the bedroom door. I’ll talk to you later about this.” My friend and I ended our conversation.

  In walked my daughter with a tray of bacon and eggs, toast, coffee and orange juice. She placed the tray on a snack table beside my bed. A huge sunflower tucked into a bud vase occupied the corner of the serving tray. I patted the comforter, motioning for Amber to sit with me on my bed.

  “Happy Solstice, Mom,” Amber said. Her brown eyes searched mine. “Dad told me what happened at the concert. Are you okay?”

  I smiled for the first time since yesterday. “I am now,” I answered, giving her a great big hug. “Stay and eat with me?”

  My daughter picked at a piece of bacon in silence. Normally, I could read Amber like a book, but I tried not to invade her private space. Talk about walking a fine line—finding a diary would be child’s play for me.

  “So…how’s your friend?” I asked.

  She played coy. “What friend? Michele?”

  “No, the guy. The one you see over at her house.” I looked into my daughter’s eyes.

  “He’s fine. I guess.”

  I deduced her game plan was act dumb. I played along. “What’s his name?” I asked, trying not to dig too far and hit a nerve. I wanted her to be able to talk to me.

  “Lance.”

  I smiled. “Ah, like Lancelot. He cute?”

  “Yeah.” She finally smiled. “Don’t worry, Mom, he only comes to see Nick, Michele’s brother. I’ve only talked to him twice.”

  Our conversations as of late were more along the lines of a chess match. “I’m not worried. I trust you, Pookie.” Her aura told another story, but I held back.