Bloodline
Witch Cat Mystery Book One
Vicki Vass
Bloodline: Witch Cat Mystery Book One
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents and dialog are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or if real, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Vicki Vass
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
For more information, to inquire bout rights to this or other works, or to purchase copies for special educational, business, or sales promotional uses please write to:
Tedeschi Publishing
294 S. Cedar Avenue
Wood Dale, Il 60191
Vickivass.com
Published in Print and Digital formats in the United States of America.
ISBN-13: 978-0692873311
DEDICATION
To Terra and Pixel
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Karen Owen for the inspiration. Thanks to Corinna Petry for her keen journalistic eye. And thanks to Michael Landon for his beautiful cover illustration.
Salem 1692
“Run, Terra,” Elizabeth’s screams reached me from within the barn. I could see the lanterns flickering like fireflies through the woods. “Run, run, Terra, now,” Her frantic voice followed me as I darted through the thicket. Brambles cut through me, slashing at me as I pushed my way down the hill toward the stream. I could hear the hounds barking in the distance followed by the sounds of women screaming. The sweet goldenrod snapped beneath my feet, releasing the smell of licorice. Goldenrod, I thought, goldenrod ground with lavender brings on sleep. One of many concoctions Elizabeth had taught me. I hoped Elizabeth and the others had made it away.
My focus returned to my peril. I needed to keep moving. Holding up my skirt, I trampled through the tall grass and into the creek. The dogs wouldn’t be able to track me through the water. Another trick Elizabeth had taught me. I pushed my way downstream past the hollow avoiding the light coming from Master Johnson’s farm. I followed the stream until I reached the sea, stumbling, falling onto the large rocks that jutted out like razors along the water’s edge. The full moon gave me away, sparkling brightly onto the sea, lighting up the beach. I could hear them coming, the dogs barking, the loud angry voices. I stumbled, panting, I was so weary. How long had I been running? It seemed like forever. I followed the shoreline until I reached a cove. My feet ached within my soaked boots, cut and bleeding from the rocks and thistles. I crept into a small cave and tucked deep into its corner. Covering my mouth with both hands, I tried to settle myself, but my heart pounded loudly. Surely it would give me away.
What had I done to cause such fury? I was only 17 years old; some would say yet a child. A child, whose childhood was bled from her, taken by a thief. That thief told the secret. Life as I knew it would now change forever.
The Atlantic waters slashed clean and cool against the dark walls, the acid smell of salt assaulting my nostrils. I stared out into the abyss. I could see nothing but the eternity that lay beyond the waters. What had they done with Elizabeth? Her screams continued to haunt me, long after I could hear them. What would they do with me if I were found? I could hear voices in the distance, some real and some in my head. As of late, I had difficulty distinguishing betwixt the two.
I shivered from the cold. What of the others? What of Prudence, Sarah, Constance? Children of the coven, not much older than I. Had they been taken? Elizabeth would give her life to save ours. Was it their screams echoing in the distance? I had no means to save them. I reached into my pocket and clenched the small vial she had given me. A chance for a new life, a chance to save myself.
The voices grew nearer. I could hear their angry words; I could see the pitchforks through the flames, the bared teeth of the hounds, they were almost upon me. I drank the potion.
The Leaf & Page
I stood on the stoop of the Leaf & Page, trying to ward off the early morning chill. The crisp mountain air drifted down like a cloud over Asheville. Fall had rolled in seemingly overnight, bringing with it cool, damp mornings. I waited, shivering slightly. “Come on in, dear.” Mrs. Twiggs opened the back door to her tiny shop located in Biltmore Village, once home to the craftsmen and employees of the Biltmore Estate, the largest mansion in North America.
As she stepped over the threshold, the 125-year-old oak floors creaked under her plump feet. I followed her in through the kitchen and then into the store winding my way along the display cases of crystals while she lit the incense burners scattered throughout the front room. Mrs. Twiggs was as dependable as a well-wound clock. She arrived precisely at 5 a.m. every morning to bake her scones and muffins before opening her shop of exotic teas and vintage books. She often said, “They’re not going to bake themselves now, are they?” She always made enough to share with the others and myself. Myself always mindful to place first in line. “Oh, dear, you do look hungry, we’ll fix that right away,” she said, gazing at me, her hands on her wide hips.
“Thank you, Mrs. Twiggs,” I said. She had told me to call her Beatrice but it never felt right to me, not proper. Mrs. Twiggs, that’s what I call her.
She scurried back into the small galley kitchen. I sat by the magnifying lamp that she used to examine her many crystals. Its warmth comforted me. From the kitchen, I could smell bacon frying. “Almost ready, dear,” Mrs. Twiggs called out to me. A few minutes later, she came out of the kitchen holding a Fiestaware plate bearing a slice of bacon and a blueberry scone. “Here you go, dear.” She placed the plate in front of me. “Eat slowly, you don’t want to upset your stomach.”
Glancing up from the plate, I smiled and gave her a wink. I could hear the others shuffling in from the alleyway though the back door. Mrs. Twiggs greeted each one by name. I ate in silence, guarding my place carefully. As we ate, Mrs. Twiggs unpacked boxes of new arrivals, dusty books she had bought at an estate sale in Biltmore Forest, the small exclusive community that surrounded Biltmore Estate. I accompanied her the day of the sale to make sure all the prices were fair. She has a kind heart, which some people use to their advantage. She held up each book like it was a revered first edition carefully placing it in just the right spot on the sloping shelves. Like Mrs. Twiggs the shop was in need of repair. Its floor slanted following the grade of the old cobblestone streets. The plaster walls peeled in parts and the floor was scratched from years of wear.
After finishing my meal, I watched Mrs. Twiggs prepare the store for opening. She dusted the rows of wooden bookshelves located in the front room, the middle room was devoted to crystals and healing stones and the back room held her selection of loose teas and herbal remedies. In the former dining room were several small café tables decorated with fresh-cut flowers from her garden. Upstairs two tiny bedrooms, one filled with boxes, the other a double bed now serving as a single. A cozy cottage plucked from a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel, its keeper, just as quaint and proper. Mrs. Twiggs embodied all that is good about Asheville, kindness, sincerity and grace. She turned the large kettle onto boil and began mixing her morning tea of the day. Each day featured a special brew, all secret recipes known only to her.
“Oh, dear, look at the time,” Mrs. Twiggs said, gazing at the antique cuckoo clock, which hung over the cash register next to the photograph of her late husband, Albert. She paused briefly, staring at Albert. “Good morning dear,” she said, as though waiting for him to respond. Albert Twiggs never answered her. In the ten years that I had watched her morning ritual, he never uttered a word, not that I expected a photograph to do so, but it would have been nice to hear his voice. She waddled to the front door and flipped over the open sign. All the others had left; it was up to myself and Mrs. Twiggs to greet the first customers. She greeted each with a hug and a smile. Mrs. Twiggs’ warmth and generosity endeared her to the community. The Asheville folk had accepted her as their own, not their usual policy for anyone not born here. Most Asheville-born families could recall several generations; many as far back as pre-Revolution. Mrs. Twiggs doled out scones, morning tea and lively conversation about her favorite subject, books. Before coming to Asheville, she had been a librarian at the College of William & Mary, a place dear to my heart. I had told Mrs. Twiggs my plans of attending W & M at one time but that time had passed. When her nose was not in a teacup, it was in a book. She could speak on any subject, from ancient history to Zen Buddhism. Of all the topics that interested her, Appalachian folklore was her favorite, that's what led her to the ladies of the Biltmore Society and their monthly book club, which she hosted at the Leaf & Page. The Biltmore Society was steeped in tradition and secrecy. Its origins dated back to 1895 when the Biltmore Estate was completed. Mrs. Twiggs never mentioned what occurred during the society’s gatherings; I thought it to be rude to ask since I am not a member, so I never did.