Bound In Blood (The Adams' Witch Book 1) (5 page)

They had the same golden yellow hair, made brighter by the fire now burning at their feet. The same hair Isabella could feel now, matted to her neck in the sanctity of her bed. The same color hair Thomas called ‘the hair of angels’.

Orange flames reflected off single tears that sparkled like stars, two tears that dripped from the faces of her and her mother. Tears shed for their husband, for their father, who must now live without them.

Isabella found it impossible to keep the images from her mind though her eyes were dry and tired from staring relentlessly upwards to see every corner of the dark room and the jumping shadows that hid there.

Mrs. Worth? Impossible. She manages a family, a husband, which she honors and respects.

Isabella drew in a fearful breath. Her head ached from lack of sleep. Though Thomas would call her naïve, a country girl, she believed Mrs. Worth to be a righteous woman. As righteous as her or her mother.

Isabella tore the covers from her and moved to the desk her father purchased for her birthday. Just enough moonlight leaked in through the window to write and she wanted a letter for Thomas as he asked. She dared not use up another candle for her mother, Mrs. Lynne, would scold her again.

Isabella trailed her fingers along the wood and then around the outside. They brushed along a row of ridges. She twisted to see what her fingers found. There, in the very corner of the small desk was an S dug into the wood. Isabella’s breath caught in her throat.

S? Shipton?
She held her hands to her chest.

The bedroom door swung open, crashing against the other wall. Isabella jumped. Her mother stood there, face blanched white and eyes wide.

“Moth—?”

Mrs. Lynne brought a finger to her lips. Her hair fell loose and wild around her. “Make a sound not.”

Isabella heeded her warning. She made no other move and barely even a breath came to her. Three faint knocks sounded from within.

“Come.” Her mother seized her hand, pulling her upright and straight through to the front entry.

Her father crouched down in shadows, peeking through the window. “Go,” he demanded, his voice an urgent whisper.

Mrs. Lynne’s hold clamped tighter around her daughter’s hand and soon, a blast of cool air whipped at their faces as they ran from the house. Isabella’s heart stuttered and skipped furiously as her bare feet slipped over the wet grass. Her soles stung as they scraped along stones and broken branches.

Her mother’s eyes darted from the road to the woods and back again. Isabella ran along beside her, the damp night air prickling her skin. The barn loomed ahead, darker than the moon tinged sky around it. Mrs. Lynne barreled through the shadowy entrance and led Isabella to a back corner where an old blanket lay. “Stay.”

Isabella watched Mrs. Lynne escape into the recesses of the barn. Blackness greeted her everywhere. Only shafts of moonlight from the spaces in the wood gave her reprieve from the dark. Her breath came in gasps, the cold air stinging her throat. She knelt down on the blanket and tried to see out the cracks, but found the gap not wide enough for her eye.

A soft hand touched her back. She started, and clamored around, her heels tugging against the blanket.

Again with a finger to her lips, Mrs. Lynne stood over her and thrust a blanket in her lap. Isabella enveloped herself in it.

Men’s voices sounded from the road. Isabella gasped before her mother’s hand covered her mouth.

Thomas.

His voice mingled among others. “Are you certain, Father?” she heard him ask.

Her heart pounded in her head, drowning out the response.

Mrs. Lynne knelt next to her on the blanket and hugged her tight. Placing her lips near her daughter’s ear, she whispered, “Do not say a word. I believe they are not coming for us, but we do not want to reveal our hiding place.”

Isabella nodded, not trusting words to come out inaudible. She feared if she tried to speak at all, a cry might fall from her lips. Then they would be ruined.

The voices passed and every second made Isabella relax a little more. Questions threatened to stream from her mouth. Minutes came and left, and only the sounds of the forest carried on the wind.

Footsteps sounded in the barn and Mrs. Lynne raised herself up. Isabella shuddered.

Her father’s fists were clenched for a fight and his features were drawn together in fury. “They have gone.”

“Edward,” her mother cried, reaching for him.

His face softened. “My wife,” he said, gathering her in his arms. “We are safe for now.” Mr. Lynne motioned for Isabella to stand. “My beautiful women,” he said and kissed them both on the foreheads before holding them in a long embrace. Mrs. Lynne’s shoulders shook with emotion. “Let us go back to the house.”

He hastened them through the night and back into the dark house to Isabella’s room.

She broke free and faced her father. “What is happening? You must tell me.”

“I am sorry I have tried to keep it from you.” Mr. Lynne looked away and sighed. “There was once a time when we lived only in fear of the savages of this new land. At present, we must worry over the very men we sit in the meetinghouse with.” He turned back, eyes wide. “Daughter, Mrs. Worth was burned this night as a witch.”

Isabella grasped for her father’s hand. “Burned?”

He smoothed her hair down and caught her by the shoulders. “I do not believe Mrs. Worth to be a witch. Magistrate Ludington errs in his judgment.” He began walking the tiny room. “What am I to do?” he asked, staring at the walls.

Mrs. Lynne’s shoulders heaved still and she let out a sob.

Mr. Lynne moved toward them once more and steered them toward the bed to sit. “I must only think of our family.”

“The men?” Isabella asked.

“A witch-hunting party.”

“And what is their intention?”

“They search for signs of the devil, Child. We cannot be too careful.”

Mrs. Lynne wiped at her eyes with the seam of her nightshirt. Her husband knelt beside them, a hand aside either one on the hand-sewn blanket.

Mrs. Lynne patted Isabella’s leg and then promised her husband, “We will do what you wish.”

Mr. Lynne nodded. “If this should ever happen again, Isabella, do as your mother says. I have given her instructions that you need not worry yourself over now. If the time comes, you do what she tells you. Understand?”

“If the time comes? I know not—”

Mrs. Lynne’s body tightened. “If they come for us.”

Isabella’s hand flew to her mouth. “But we are not Satan’s witches.”

“Of course not,” her father spat the words. “I believe strongly that Mrs. Worth was otherwise too when she was taken.”

Isabella’s heart drummed loud in her ears. “And you think this might happen to us?”

“To anyone.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. Mr. Lynne cursed and strode from the room, the boards creaking underneath his heavy step.

Isabella drew in a long breath, lost inside herself. “I heard one of them say something.”

The bed groaned as her mother stood. “I did as well,” Mrs. Lynne said.

Isabella looked to her, forgetting she was even there. “What do you think they looked for?”

“I imagine for anything suspicious.”

“What about Mrs. Worth?”

“I cannot care about that now.” Her mother grabbed up her hand and squeezed it. “I want only to protect us.”

“And Mrs. Shipton?”

Mrs. Lynne cocked her head. “What of her? She has not been taken.”

Isabella looked over at the desk, at the mark of the S burnt onto it and shuddered. “Do you think she will?”

CHAPTER FIVE

Sarah

The bed was my friend.

I awoke, sprawled spread eagle across every inch of the queen-size mattress. Light shone through the windows making it seem like full day outside, but I had a sinking suspicion it was early. Too early.

Over 400 years of history. They weren’t kidding. It was a long, long night. My head throbbed, reminding me I stayed up way too late. The lingering smell of gasoline and the raucous crowd still echoed between my ears.

Sleep clouding my eyes, I searched the room for the clock on the desk. I forgot to pull tight the curtains last night, allowing the sun to seep in super early and then get really annoying at about, oh… right now. 8:09 exactly, the digital clock blinking red informed me.

Note to self: Pull your curtains shut from now on. No more of this waking up early crap.

I sat up and stretched. The black witch shirt still clung to me. The only strength I could muster last night was unfastening my bra before collapsing on the bed, already half-asleep before hitting the flowery comforter.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Okay. And I had time to take the phone out of my pocket. But that was a necessity.

It was a text from my best friend.

Jamie: saw ur mom yesterday seems upset

Yeah right. Friends at home still weren’t used to my mother’s drama induced, poor-me-I’m-so-abused BS.
Ignore.

My phone buzzed again. “Ugh. What now?”

Mom: Thought u were gonna call me yesterday????????

Mom: I hope u r on ur way home!!!!!!

The phone vibrated in my hands again. “Oh my god,” I screamed into the pillow. “It's too early for this.”

Drake: Mornin’ Sunshine. U and me. Breakfast.

A grin widened across my face. It buzzed again.

Drake: Abigail’s 9:30!

K, I texted back.

I readied myself in a hurry and ran downstairs, wanting to tell Rose I wouldn’t be needing the uber deluxe breakfast treatment this morning. “Rose?” I called into the kitchen.

No answer. I hadn’t seen her since last night at the ceremony. I even got home before she did. She wasn’t joking about being busy this week.

Uneasiness swept over me. Not because Rose wouldn’t be around to talk about my dad, but because I didn’t want to seem like a nuisance. I had come at a bad time.

“Rose?” I called again, in the foyer now.

I pushed open a door to the left of the dining room that I hadn’t been in yet. The room was bright with natural light from one wall full of windows overlooking the backyard garden. A fireplace nestled in the corner on the opposite side.

A library.

A long cream-colored couch faced the fireplace, and matching armchairs at the ends of the room faced the windows. Bookshelves brimming with books lined the walls. Most were leather-bound and the titles on the spine were barely legible, gold text flaking off.

A real library. An actual in-house library. I thought royalty and rich people were the only ones who thought to include libraries. Or the only ones who could afford to act like they actually used a house library.

I walked to the closest bookshelf, trailing my finger over the spines before picking one at random. My breath caught. “What the heck?” I frowned, my finger tracing the word ‘Journal’ on the cover.

A sharp rap on the door startled me and I dropped the book. It thudded on the carpeted floor. “What are you doing in here?”

I turned. It was only Rose. I laughed despite the initial jolt of nerves. “I was looking for you. Drake asked me to meet him for breakfast, so…” I stopped short. Rose glared down at the book on the floor beside my feet. “Um, sorry about that. You scared me and I dropped it.”

“You are not allowed in here.”

“What?” I asked. An icy stare from Rose silenced me. “I mean, yeah, sure, but…” I bent over and picked up the journal. “…this looks exactly like the journal I found of my father’s.”

Rose’s eyebrows drew together as she walked toward me, then she tore the leather book from my hands. “You are not allowed in here.” She put the book back in its place and pointed toward the door.

My face flushed. “I’m sorry, Rose. I was looking for you and saw that journal. It looks just like my father’s. Are they
all
his in here?”

“No.” Rose stood in the library doorway, arms crossed. “Those aren’t David’s.”

Great.
I’ve pissed her off.
“I enjoyed the…” A pause left the air between us buzzing. I searched for an appropriate sounding word. “…festivities last night.”

“Good.”

Okay... Still pissed.
I pulled the hem of my shirt down, fingers grazing against the cell phone in my pocket. “Hey, did you call my mom again yesterday? Because she texted me this morning and—”

“No, I didn’t. I was busy getting ready for the festival.” She hadn’t moved her imposing figure an inch from the library doorway.

“Yeah, I understand. I just…” I reached up to play with the collar of my crew neck shirt.

“I’ll take care of it, Sarah.” Her voice rang with the stern confidence of a drill sergeant. She reached behind her and pulled the door shut. “Tell Drake I say hello.”

***