“Me familiar. Terra, come. Abigail, make food.” Pixel danced excitedly around me, nudging me.
I could smell the back bacon and the biscuits from the oven. It smelled better than Abigail’s usual fare. I followed Pixel into the tiny kitchen of the cabin. Mrs. Tangledwood had donned an apron and was pulling a tray of biscuits out of the wood stove. Out of all the Wiccans I had encountered both when I walked on two feet and now on four, I had never seen such rejuvenation. Not just of her physical outward beauty but her aura colors were brilliant, almost blinding to look at. Of all the ladies of the Biltmore Society, Emma Tangledwood would be the one to turn the tide of what would come.
I jumped up on the table and sniffed the fresh biscuits, a habit I had both as a young woman and a cat. Mrs. Tangledwood smiled and rubbed my back. I arched it uncontrollably. “Terra, it will take some time for me to get used to you. To get used to all the changes,” she said. “Shall we eat breakfast and have a talk?”
Abigail poured the tea. I had gotten used to smelling the fresh honey she gathered and the nettle leaf. In her own way Abigail was trying to protect us but she was not the ninth we needed to close our coven. On my journeys across the country I had come across many different types of magic, Wiccans, shape shifters, wood nymphs, but never a witch. I was afraid that I was the last. I had seen Elizabeth hang and although that took her flesh, her spirit had survived. I wandered in search of any sign of her. I spent decades, no centuries, searching for Elizabeth’s daughter and the honorable Jonathan Goodall, Jr., who had disappeared from Salem after Elizabeth was executed. He had never returned not even upon his father’s death. I, too, never returned to Salem after Elizabeth, I could not stand by and watch the rest of my sisters be extinguished. Like Elizabeth’s spirit, I am afraid, they too, left this world. Otherwise surely we would have found each other in one form or another. That would have to wait until another day. The problem at hand is to find the ninth Wiccan and summon what powers she has. For this purpose I must count on Mrs. Tangledwood. She will be my apprentice.
“Terra, dear, aren’t you going to eat?” Mrs. Tangledwood asked, breaking my thoughts.
“Yes, Mrs. Tangledwood, of course. It smells delicious.”
Pixel had already finished his third piece of bacon. Tracker was begging for his fifth. Abigail sipped the tea and stared quietly at me.
As Mrs. Tangledwood cleared the breakfast dishes, I walked outside with Abigail. She sat on the logs by the fire pit, I paced back and forth. Finally she broke the silence. “Are you going to tell me what’s been on your mind?” She pulled her knife out of her boot. She flipped the blade into the ground, retrieved it and repeated it several times. I had noticed she did this when she was upset or nervous.
“Lionel and Bryson were watchers.” I did not know how to explain to her what that meant. “Abigail, they were tasked to keep you safe.”
“Why me? Why them?”
“That I don’t know.”
Abigail said. “Why would somebody want to kill them?”
I paused. “Lionel’s life and yours are on a path leading to a crossroads. The black magic killed Lionel and Bryson because you are close to that crossroads.”
Abigail stuck the knife back in her boot. “Terra, I can’t do this. People are dying around me. I can’t help you. This is insane. I’m heading back to Chicago.”
“No, Abigail, no go.” Pixel jumped out of the corner and onto Abigail. He put his paws on her chest and opened his saucer eyes wide. “No go, no go, no go,” he said, kneading her.
Abigail cracked a smile. “Pixel, you’ll be fine. You have Tracker and Terra and the nice ladies of the Biltmore Society.”
“No, Abigail, no go,” Pixel repeated. And then he spoke clearly with purpose and with an intelligence I had not thought possible. “No, Abigail, the storm is coming for you. Lionel tried to stop it.” Pixel closed his eyes. “Terra?”
“Yes, Pixel.”
“Pixel scared.”
The Fillmore Hotel
I waited until morning to bring my friends to the Fillmore. As of late, I didn’t feel safe traveling at night. Dark things prefer dark places. It seemed that some myths are based on reality. The boogiemen, the noise in your closet, the shadow in the corner of your bedroom, are all monsters peering in at you through the window of an alternate world. Most humans can’t see them but they can feel them by the raised hair on the back of their neck, the goose bumps on their arms, the sensation of cold drafts, a creaky door, a loose floorboard, a movement out of the corner of your eye. Most of these creatures are not maleficent. Most are lonely souls, but there are the others who feed off of sorrow and fear. Those creatures live in the realm of black magic. Elizabeth once told me that shining a light on the bumps in the night would make them take flight. I was only three at the time so I thought it was a pretty bedtime story. After so many years of wandering the earth I understood what she meant. Shining a light on black magic reveals its true identity and drains it of its power.
Abigail had filled her backpack with all her belongings. I had convinced her to make one stop before leaving town. Pixel and Tracker followed behind us. The streets were mostly empty. Anyone at dawn was either ending a long night or starting a long day. We arrived at the brass doors of the hotel where Wesley stood guard. Even when there were no guests to attend Wesley never left his post. “Good morning, miss, I’m surprised to see you so early,” he said. “You must be hungry.”
“No, thank you, Wesley, You’re quite kind. I’ve come for a different purpose,” I said.
“Terra, how come he can understand you?” Abigail asked. The constant beep of a cement truck coming down the alley distracted me. I could tell Wesley was annoyed by the commotion as well.
I hushed Abigail. “Quiet, Abigail.”
“And, who is this young lady?”
“I’m Abigail. Nice to meet you.” She paused. “Wesley.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Abigail. You must excuse me but breakfast will be served shortly. Guests will be waiting.”
“Of course, Wesley,” I interrupted. “You must be very busy getting ready for the opening tonight.”
“Yes, we are expecting so many guests. And Mr. Vanderbilt will be here with the family.”
Abigail started speaking. I shushed her. Wesley whispered, “A very special guest from Louisiana, a medium, will be holding a séance. You know how the Vanderbilt’s enjoy a good séance.” Wesley’s face went blank. His coal black eyes turned milky white in a moment he was back. “I’m sorry, young miss, you were saying?” Wesley reached under his sleeve and rubbed his arm, revealing the burn marks. “Yes, the séance is tonight. Mademoiselle gave me quite a list.”
“What list, Wesley?” I asked.
“The strangest things: twigs of ash, oak and thorn, nettle leave.”
Abigail turned pale.
“Thank you, Wesley,” I said. We walked down the sidewalk, but Abigail kept turning her head to stare at the hotel.
“The hotel looks like it’s been boarded over for years. What is Wesley doing here during all this construction?”
“It burned down years ago but it was really something when it opened. That was the night I met Wesley.” I closed my eyes and pictured the magnificent grand opening. I could hear the music. It was spring; I could smell the lilacs in bloom around me. Wesley was dapper in his livery.
“When did it burn down?” Abigail asked, interrupting my memories.
“The night it opened. George Vanderbilt built the hotel so his friends could stay here while the estate was being built.”
Abigail quietly absorbed what I said and then broke in, “Wait a minute, Terra, that would make Wesley 150 years old.”
“No, that would make Wesley what you would call a ghost. The night of the grand opening there was a great fire. Wesley relives that night every night.”