Spellcasters (21 page)

“Pull in the next driveway,” Cortez said.

“I can’t park here,” I said, taking my foot off the accelerator. “I’m sure my neighbors are pissed off enough already.”

“You’re not parking. You’re turning around.”

“You want me to run?”

“For now, yes.”

I gripped the steering wheel. “I can’t do that.”

I kept my face forward, but I could sense his gaze on me.

“Getting into your house won’t be easy, Paige,” he said, his voice softer. “This type of situation … it doesn’t bring out the best in people. No one would blame you for turning around.”

I looked through the rearview mirror at Savannah.

“Paige is right,” she said. “If we back down now, Leah will know we’re spooked.”

“All right, then,” Cortez said. “Pull in wherever you see an opening.”

As I scouted for a parking space, nobody spoke. My eyes traveled from group to group. To the national news crews sipping coffee from the Belham Starbucks. To the scattered clusters of people with camcorders and curious eyes. To the state police arguing with five bald people in white robes. To the men, women, and children pacing the sidewalk, carrying signs condemning my soul to damnation.

Strangers. All strangers. I scanned the crowd and saw not a local newsperson, not a village cop, not a single familiar face. Up and down the street every door was closed, every curtain drawn. Everyone willing to shut out the June sun and cool breezes if it meant they could also shut out whatever was happening at 32 Walnut Lane. Shut it out and wait for it to go away. Wait for us to go away.

“When Paige stops the car, get out immediately,” Cortez said. “Undo your seat belt now and be ready. Once you’re out, keep moving, don’t even pause to look around. Paige, take Savannah’s hand and head to the front of the car. I’ll meet you there and clear a path.”

When we’d turned the corner, a few people had looked over, not as many as you might expect, considering they were waiting for a stranger to arrive, but maybe they’d been there so long, seen so many strangers drive by, that they’d stopped jumping every time a new car appeared.

When the car slowed, more glanced our way. I saw their faces then. Bored, impatient, almost angry, as if ready to snap at the next rubbernecker who falsely aroused their expectations. Then they saw me. A shout. Another. A ripple of movement, escalating to a stream, then a wave.

I turned the wheel to wedge in sideways behind a news van. For a second, I saw nothing but the call letters of a TV station in Providence.

Then a rush of people swallowed the van. Strangers jostled against the car, rocking it.

A man, knocked flying by the mob, sprawled across the hood. The car bounced. The man scrambled up. I met his eyes, saw the hunger there, the excitement, and for one second, I froze.

As the flood of people engulfed the car, I saw the very real possibility that I’d be trapped. I grabbed the handle and flung the door open, putting all my strength behind it and not caring who I hit. I leaped from the car, wheeled, and grabbed Savannah as she got out.

“Ms. Winterbourne, do you—”

“—have you—”

“—allegations—”

“Paige, what do you—”

The cacophony of questions hit me like a fifty-mile-an-hour wind, almost knocking me back into the car. I heard voices, words, shouts, all blending into one screaming voice.

I remembered Cortez saying to meet him at the front of the car. Where was the front of the car? The moment I stepped away from the vehicle, people surrounded me, the noise engulfed me. Fingers grabbed my arm. I jerked away, then saw Cortez at my side, his hand around my elbow.

“No comment,” he said and pulled me from the fray.

The crowd released me for a moment, then swallowed me again.

“—do you—”

“—living dead—”

“—Grantham Cary—”

“—dragons and—”

I opened my mouth to say “no comment,” but couldn’t get the words out. Instead, I shook my head and let Cortez say them for me.

When he managed to free us again, I pulled Savannah closer, my arm going tightly around her waist. She didn’t resist. I tried to look over at her, but everything around us moved so fast, I caught only a glimpse of her cheek.

The crowd tried closing in on us again, but Cortez barreled through, pulling us in his wake. We’d gone about ten feet when the mob swelled. Others joined the newspeople, and the tone of that single, shouting voice went from predatory excitement to vicious rage.

“—killer—”

“—Satanist—”

“—witch—”

A man shoved a newswoman out of our path and stepped in front of Cortez. His eyes were wild and bloodshot. Spittle flew from his lips.

“—Devil’s whore! Murdering bitch—”

Cortez lifted his hand chest-high. For a moment, I thought he was going to deck the guy. Instead, he simply flicked his fingers. The man stumbled back, tripping over an elderly woman behind him, then wheeling to scream deprecations at her for pushing him.

Cortez steered us through the gap. If anyone didn’t move fast enough, he shouldered them aside. If they tried to block us, he flicked his fingers at waist level, propelling them back with just enough force to make them think someone had pushed them. After five long minutes, we finally reached the porch.

“Get inside,” Cortez said.

He turned fast, shoving Savannah and me toward the door as he blocked the porch steps. I fumbled to unlock the door, my mind racing in search of a spell, something that might distract or repel the mob until Cortez could get inside.

Mentally thumbing through my repertoire, I realized I had nothing. Yes, I knew some aggressive spells, but my selection was so limited that I had nothing to suit the situation. What was I going to do? Make one person faint? Rain down fireballs? They probably wouldn’t even notice the former, and the latter would attract too
much
notice. The rebel Coven Leader, so proud of her forbidden spells, was useless. Completely useless.

While we got inside the house, Cortez staved off the crowd, physically blocking the narrow steps, one hand planted on each side of the railing. It lasted just long enough for us to get through the door. Then someone pushed hard, and a heavyset man pitched against Cortez’s shoulder.

Cortez backpedaled just in time to avoid being knocked over. His lips moved and, for a moment, the crowd held at the steps, stopped by a barrier spell. Cortez shot for the door and undid the spell before it became obvious. The front row of the crowd tumbled forward.

I threw open the screen door. Cortez caught it. As he dashed through, a shadow passed overhead. A young man leaped off the side railing. The spell flew from my lips before I had time to think. The man stopped short, head and limbs jerking back. The binding spell broke then, but he’d lost his momentum and fell onto the porch several feet from the door. Cortez slammed the screen shut, then the inner door.

“Good choice,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, choosing not to mention that it was my only choice and that I was lucky it worked for even those few seconds. I bolted the
door, cast lock and perimeter spells, then collapsed against the wall. “Please tell me we don’t have to go out again … ever.”

“Does that mean we can order pizza for dinner?” Savannah called from the living room.

“You got the fifty bucks for a tip?” I yelled back. “Ain’t no pizza boy coming through that mob for less than a Ulysses S. Grant.”

Savannah let out a cry, half-shriek, half-shout. As I raced into the living room, she said something I couldn’t make out. A man’s body flew across the rear hall. He struck the wall headfirst. There was a sharp crack, then a thud as he collapsed in a heap on the carpet. Savannah stepped from her bedroom doorway as Cortez and I arrived. He dropped to the man’s side.

“Out cold,” Cortez said. “Do you know him?”

I looked at the man, middle-aged, receding hairline, pinched face, and shook my head. My gaze traveled up the wall to a four-inch hole with cracks radiating from every side, like a giant spider.

“Leah,” I said. “She’s here—”

“I don’t believe Leah did this,” Cortez said.

There was a moment of silence, then I turned to look at Savannah.

“He surprised me,” she said.

“
You
knocked him out?” I said.

“She has excellent reflexes,” Cortez said, fingers moving to the back of the man’s head. “A possible concussion. A definite goose egg. Nothing serious. Shall we see who we have?”

Cortez reached around and pulled the man’s wallet from his slacks. When I looked toward Savannah, she retreated into her room. I was about to follow when Cortez lifted a card for my inspection.

As I took the card, the phone rang. I jumped, every frayed nerve springing to life. With an oath, I closed my eyes and waited for the ringing to stop. The machine picked up.

“Ms. Winterbourne? This is Peggy Dare from the Massachusetts Department of Social Services …”

My eyes flew open.

“We’d like to speak to you regarding Savannah Levine. We have some concerns …”

I ran for the phone. Cortez tried to grab me as I passed and I dimly heard him say something about preparing and phoning back, but I couldn’t listen. I raced into the kitchen, grabbed the receiver, and whacked the stop button on the answering machine.

“This is Paige Winterbourne,” I said. “Sorry about that. I’ve been screening my calls.”

“I can well imagine.” The voice on the other end was pleasant, sympathetic, like that of a kindly neighbor. “There seems to be a bit of excitement at your place these days.”

“You could say that.”

A mild chuckle, then she sobered. “I do apologize for adding to what must be a very difficult time for you, Ms. Winterbourne, but we have some concerns about Savannah’s well-being. I understand you’re undergoing a custody challenge.”

“Yes, but—”

“Normally, we don’t interfere in such matters unless there is a serious threat of harm to the child. While no one is alleging Savannah has been mistreated, we are concerned about the current climate in which she is living. It must be very confusing for Savannah, having her mother disappear, then once she’s settled in with you, this happens.”

“I’m trying to keep her out of it as much as possible.”

“Is there anyplace Savannah could go? Temporarily? Perhaps a more … stable environment? I believe there is an aunt in town.”

“Her great-aunt. Margaret Levine. I thought of letting Savannah stay there until this is over.” Yeah, right.

“Please do. As well, I’ve been asked to pay you a visit. The board is anxious to assess the situation. A home visit is usually best. Is two o’clock tomorrow afternoon convenient?”

“Absolutely.” That gave me less than twenty-four hours to clear the circus outside.

I signed off, then turned to Cortez. “The Department of Social Services is paying a home visit tomorrow afternoon.”

“Social Services? That is the last thing—” He stopped, pushed up his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. We should expect they’ll take an interest. A minor concern. Tomorrow afternoon, you said? What time?”

“Two.”

He pulled out his DayTimer and made the note, then handed me the card I’d dropped while running for the phone. I looked at it blankly for a second, then saw the unconscious man lying in the hallway and groaned.

“Back to crisis number twenty-one,” I said.

“I believe this is twenty-two. The angry mob was twenty-one. Or, given that they show no signs of leaving, I should say they
are
twenty-one.”

I moaned and collapsed onto a kitchen chair, then lifted the card. The unlucky B&E artist’s name was Ted Morton. If anyone had told me a week ago that I’d be sitting at my table, collaborating with a sorcerer
about how best to dispose of a stranger that Savannah had knocked out cold, I’d have … well, I don’t know what I would have done. It was too ludicrous. Yet, considering all that had happened in the past week, this really wasn’t so bad. It certainly ranked a few rungs below watching a man hurtle to his death or seeing his shattered corpse come to life before his family and friends.

Mr. Morton was a so-called paranormal investigator. I have no patience with these guys. I’ve never met one who wasn’t in serious need of a real life. Maybe I’m being intolerant, but these guys are a bigger nuisance than cockroaches in a Florida flophouse. They poke around, inventing stories, attracting con artists and, once in a while, stumbling onto a bit of truth.

All through high school I worked at a computer store where my boss was head of the Massachusetts Society for Explaining the Unexplained. Did she ever explain how I vanished every time she came looking for someone to make a fast-food run? She’d walk into the back office, I’d cast a cover spell, she’d murmur, “Gee, I could have sworn I saw Paige come back here,” and go in search of another victim.

“Figures,” I said, tossing the card back to Cortez. “How do the Cabals handle these people?”

“Chainsaws and large cement blocks.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I glanced over my shoulder at Morton and sighed. “Guess we should do something before he wakes up. Any suggestions?”

“Chainsaws tend to be quite noisy. I don’t suppose you have a ready supply of quicklime?”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“Unfortunately, yes. We require a somewhat more discreet solution. Our best answer would be one that sees Mr. Morton outside the house, but does not require taking him far, which would risk calling attention to the endeavor. It would also be preferable if he could be made to forget having been inside the house which, again, would risk attention when he retells the story. You wouldn’t know hypnosis, would you?”

I shook my head.

“Then we’ll have to settle—”

Savannah appeared in the doorway. “I have an idea. How about we dump him in the basement, right beneath the hatch. We can break the lock on the hatch, maybe leave it ajar. Then, when he wakes up, he might think he came in through there, fell, and hit his head.”

Cortez nodded. “That might work. Paige?”

“If it means we don’t have to go outside again, it works for me.”

Cortez got to his feet and headed for the back hall.