“It’s good business. Market-identification.”
“My father thinks it’s silly. Silly drivel, he calls it—”
“But he owns the place, doesn’t he?”
“Yep. My grandfather bought the inn in the fifties, and when he died, my father inherited it. We’ve been running it ever since.”
“But if he thinks the witch theme is silly, why does he push it?”
She splayed her hands. “Because he knows it can make a buck, but he still thinks it’s—and I quote—silly drivel.”
Fanshawe asked automatically, “You don’t?”
Now her pause lengthened. “In a way. But it’s also history, and that’s interesting. These things really happened back then, when our culture was in its infancy.”
What is it about her? Fanshawe was hectored by the thought. He struggled for more to talk about. She turned her back to him for a moment, to arrange strainers and jiggers, then was agitating something in a shaker. Her reflection stood beside herself, while Fanshawe’s eyes had no choice but to fall on her back and buttocks, on the figure beneath the simple blouse and jeans: a figure of perfect curves. His eyes adjusted, to glimpse her face in the reflection as she looked down at the counter. For an indivisible instant, her own eyes flicked up and caught his in the mirror—
He gulped.
She turned. A sound—clink!—and then a shot glass was set before him.
Abbie was grinning. “On the house.”
“Thanks…” Fanshawe squinted. Some dark scarlet liquid filled the glass.
“It’s our drink special,” Abbie announced. “Could you ever guess?” and then she pointed to the specials board which read: TRY OUR WITCH-BLOOD SHOOTER!
Fanshawe chuckled. “I barely drink at all these days but with a name like that how can I resist?” He raised the glass, peered more closely at it, then looked back to Abbie. “Wow, this really does look like blood…”
Abbie laughed and tossed her hair. “It’s just cherry brandy mixed with a little espresso and chocolate syrup.”
Fanshawe downed the chilled shot neat, then raised an approving brow.
“Not bad at all.”
Abbie grinned. She grinned a lot. “Just what you need after a trip to Witches Hill.”
Fanshawe felt, first, the liquor’s chill, then the delayed bloom of heat spread in his belly; it seemed quite similar to his “butterflies” when he’d first seen Abbie behind the bar. “You know, tourist gimmick or not, it was pretty unnerving, standing in the middle of a place where executions occurred.”
“Oh, they occurred, all right—wholesale. Thirteen in one day, and a over a hundred more for decades after that. In truth, there were far more folks executed for occult offenses than criminal offenses. Some claim to fame, huh? Did you see the graveyard?”
“No. I didn’t know there was one.”
“Well, there is, believe me, and it’s ten times creepier. Half of it’s unconsecrated ground; it’s on the western end of the hill. Unconsecrated burial grounds are always located to the west or north of a town’s church.”
Fanshawe opened his small map on the bar. “I don’t remember noticing it on this—”
“There,” she said, pointing. Her fingertip touched next to a minuscule cross on the colorful map.
“No wonder I didn’t see it, it’s tiny,” but then he looked up, his eyes following the line of her arm. It was an unconscious tactic for any “scoptophile” or voyeur: Abbie’s blouse—as she leaned down slightly to address the map—had looped out between two buttons. Fanshawe glimpsed part of a sizable breast sitting within a sheer bra. A ghost of a nipple could be seen through the light fabric.
Oh, God… “I’ll check it out tomorrow,” he recovered.
“And there aren’t many regular tombstones, either,” she went on. “Just splotches of this stuff called tabby mortar.”
“Tabby mortar?”
“Yeah. It’s like low-grade cement. The convict’s name would be written in this stuff by someone’s finger—you’ve got to see it to know what I mean.”
Fanshawe had trouble concentrating on her words, still too hijacked by her image, by her simple proximity. Whatever shampoo she used didn’t help; the soft, fruity scent affected him aphrodisiacally. But when he recollected what she’d said, he wasn’t sure if she spoke with genuine interest or— Is she just laying a bunch of tourist crap on me? Same as the old lady? “I guess it’s just more of the motif, that and the power of suggestion. But it was a good marketing ploy to name the hotel after”—he faltered, for the name drew a blank. “Jacob… What was his name?”
“Jacob Wraxall, one of the founding members of the town. He lived here with his daughter, Evanore—”
Fanshawe remembered with some unease the old portrait and Wraxall’s thin, sinister face. The rendition of the daughter, however, struck him with an even more ominous impact. Evanore… Her fresh-blood-colored hair sent a butterfly of a far less pleasant type to his belly. Fanshawe felt a momentary whooze…
He shook the image out of his head, then looked back up at Abbie. The clean, guileless good looks made him whooze again—sexually, though. He cleared his throat. “Jacob Wraxall, yes, and his daughter Evanore. Your father pointed out the portrait in one of the coves.” He tapped a finger on the bar, half-remembering a blank face half-submerged in shadow. “And there was a third person too, wasn’t there? A yard-hand or something?”
“Um-hmm. Callister Rood, but he was more than a yard-hand. He was the family apprentice necromancer.”
“That’s some job title,” Fanshawe tried to jest, but it didn’t come off.
Abbie’s voice lowered, either as if she were playing her description up for drama’s sake, or she was genuinely unsettled. “It was in this very house that they solicited the devil.”
The devil, Fanshawe thought. But the notion of devil-worship, and even the name—the devil—was so hokey he had to smile.
Abbie’s smile had disappeared. “They practiced their witchcraft in secret. Years went by, but the town never knew.”
“Well, someone must’ve known—”
“Of course, but a lot of time went by before anyone found out. Evanore was the one who got caught first.” She leaned closer against the bar, her voice nearly fluttering. “She and the coven were all condemned to death.”
“Evanore but not her father?” Fanshawe asked logically. “Why didn’t Jacob get nabbed too?”
“Jacob was abroad in England at the time, and Callister Rood had gone with him. But when they returned, his daughter had already been executed and buried.”
“But Jacob must’ve been into witchcraft even more than her. I didn’t see any books in your display about her, only Jacob.”
Abbie stepped away, as if to separate herself from something that had fazed her. She began to arrange the fruit cups in the service bar. “Jacob Wraxall was the most notorious heretic of his day. But that shows you how smart he was. Nobody suspected him until much later, after so much damage had already been done.” Finally, her grin returned. “You’re staying in his room, by the way.”
Fanshawe gave a start after the words registered. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope,” but then she winced. “I’m sorry I mentioned it—sometimes I get a little carried away with this stuff. But no one’s ever complained about the room, Stew—it’s the best one in the house. I mean…if it bothers you, I’d be happy to put you somewhere else—”
“No, no, that’s not it. I don’t believe in ghosts or anything like that. The room is great, but there’s just something…odd, knowing whose it was…” Suddenly the most gruesome possibilities occurred to him; he looked up, sheepish. “Please don’t tell me he boiled cats and made blood-sacrifices up there.”