Spirited (9 page)

Perhaps he had subconsciously used this talent when hunting witches, shielding their powers so he could capture them. And Destiny said they could only do little things anyway and that it took a long time at even that, so perhaps their powers were too subtle to be of much use in preventing capture.

And if Cotton had the same talent that he had, then he would eventually sense all the people down here and—

“Mathias says you’re bad,” Destiny said. “But I think you’re good.”

“Maybe I’m both.”

“How can you be both?”

Isaiah shrugged. “Your mother taught you to be good?”

Destiny nodded.

“How did she know what’s good?”

Destiny shrugged. “Maybe from her mother?”

“Maybe,” Isaiah said. “The man who raised me—the one I thought of as a father—taught me that people like you were bad. He taught me that I was doing good.”

“Did you believe him?”

“No one told me any differently,” Isaiah said. “And maybe I wanted to believe. I was skilled at it.”

“But you don’t believe that anymore, do you?” Destiny asked. “You don’t think I’m bad?”

Isaiah shook his head. Destiny took his uncertainty as an answer and smiled.

~*~*~

The next day Faith Jacobs came, and she was as distractingly beautiful as Isaiah remembered. He remembered her smile too, though she did not share it with him now.

“How did Destiny get her… talent, if you have none?”

“You don’t believe she contracted with the devil?”

Isaiah shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Our parents had the talent,” Faith said. “After they were captured and… . Well, after that, I ran away with Destiny.”

“You must hate me.”

“I hate what you’ve done,” Faith said. “I hate what you represent. I hate that my sister must live in a hole. But I don’t hate you.”

So little to ask for—a mere lack of hate—but it made Isaiah feel better somehow. He’d always been shunned, nearly as much as any witch. People were afraid of him, afraid he would point the finger their way.

“I don’t want Destiny to learn to hate either,” Faith said. “Blind hate is the reason we’re down here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t allow Destiny to live in the sunshine. All this disease and death you blame us for. Why would we do that? Have you ever considered that it’s just a drought, that no one is to blame except the weather?” She sighed and shook her head. “Destiny said you told her that a person could be both good and bad.”

“That’s the only hope I have now.”

Faith studied the people in the cavern going about their tasks and their lives—the men and women working, the children playing, the babies crying. “You realize that none of this was a choice, don’t you? No one chose to be what he is, not even you. This is how they were born. This is how
you
were born.”

Faith met Isaiah’s eyes. “But we all have choices now. We can’t blame our actions on the fate of our births.”

Destiny ran up with Mathias and Bartholomew close behind. “Men are coming. Lots of them.”

~*~*~

Bartholomew raised his arms to calm the growing chaos at news of Chief Magistrate Cotton and a small army marching their way. “Perhaps it is time we stopped running. Times are changing. Governor Danvers is convening hearings. Even Isaiah Wildes is changing. Chief Magistrate Cotton may change as well.”

“Cotton will not change,” Isaiah said. “Not with a mob at his back. Not with his identity at stake. His power depends on things staying the same. And he will not give up that power.”

“Then we fight,” Mathias shouted.

Bartholomew shook his head. “We are mostly women and children.”

“Run away,” Isaiah said. “Hide. Wait for the governor’s decision.”

“What if he decides the hunts should continue? Won’t running prove our guilt to him?”

“Not if nobody knows you were here.” Isaiah turned to Destiny. “Remember the new trick I taught you when you showed me how to make a flame: how to shield talent so it can’t be sensed?”

Destiny nodded.

“Could you shield everyone here at once?”

Destiny surveyed the crowd and turned back to Isaiah. “Can you sense us now?”

Isaiah smiled and shook his head.

Destiny grinned back and whispered, “It’s easy. I told you they mostly don’t know many tricks anyway. Not like us.” She winked at Isaiah. “And I’m working on that new trick you mentioned the other day.”

“But they have eyes,” Mathias said. “They’ll see us.”

Isaiah created blazing flames in each palm. The people closest shielded their eyes. Destiny smiled, the proud teacher.

“Cotton is the only one amongst them who can sense the talent,” Isaiah said. “If everyone is shielded but me, then his sight—and his army—will be focused on me while you escape unseen.”

~*~*~

Off in the distance, a dog whined. A moment later another answered with a whimpering howl. Cruel, relentless sunshine lanced down on Isaiah, burning his eyes even after he closed them. Beneath him, rough stone scratched at his bare back and buttocks. Sand and gravel scoured his skin.

Isaiah grunted as two men added another stone to the thick oak board strapped atop his chest. He sucked in a rasping breath. The rough-cut plank punctured his skin, and the weight of the stones crushed his chest, forcing the air from his lungs.

Cotton looked down on him with a thin smile. “The record for surviving this test is two days.”

“He was an old man,” Isaiah wheezed. “Like you.”

“Perhaps. But I am in control of how much weight gets added.” Cotton motioned for yet another rock to be piled onto Isaiah’s chest. “By morning, you will be just another dead nameless witch—like your mother.”

Isaiah tried to respond, but he could only grunt. His mouth tasted of blood and vomit.

“You can save your life and your reputation,” Cotton said. “Help me track down those witches. We’ll go to Governor Danvers with proof that there are covens of witches literally underfoot. And you will be at my side as we bring them to the light.”

“You mean… I’ll be… your foxhound.”

“You will live,” Cotton said. “You will thrive even. Things will be as they were. You were good at what you did. You made your father proud.”

“He was not”—Isaiah spit out—”my father.”

“This is what you were
born
to be, Isaiah.”

“No.” Isaiah sucked in a wheezing breath. “That’s what… people like you… made me.”

“Take a stone off,” Cotton ordered. “Take two off.”

He turned back to Isaiah. “You see, I am not unmerciful. I will be kinder to you than Reverend Wildes was. We are alike after all. We share the same talent. We share the same destiny.

“Do not force me to do this, Isaiah. Join me. After this is over, I’ll be the next governor. You’ll be my chief magistrate. Think about that.”

Cotton strode away before stopping and turning around. “We’ll talk again tomorrow. If you’re able.”

~*~*~

Isaiah coughed out a bitter laugh. Bloody saliva rained back down on his face. Cotton was right: they were alike. A few days ago Isaiah had had the same idea about going to the governor with proof of the witches, convincing him that the hunts must continue. Perhaps their destinies were the same.

Destiny. He smiled weakly, thinking of Destiny Jacobs, her smile so much like her sister’s. That small girl had led her people to safety. At least he thought they must be safe. For now anyway. If they’d been captured, then Cotton would have no reason to keep him alive. But they couldn’t hide forever.

Someone leaned over Isaiah. He recognized Alder’s voice, though his vision was blurring and he couldn’t make out a face.

“I’m sorry,” Alder said. “You of all people know there’s nothing I can do. Please forgive me.”

“My forgiveness… doesn’t matter.”

Alder groaned as if he were the one crushed beneath stones.

Isaiah sucked in air. “You knew my mother?”

“I was there when Cotton passed sentence,” Alder admitted. “Reverend Wildes convinced him to stay execution until after your birth.”

“What was her name?”

After a moment of silence, Alder said, “I don’t remember.”

~*~*~

Isaiah sensed Cotton coming the next morning. He could feel the stain in him, though it was weak and Destiny would laugh at Cotton as someone with little talent for learning tricks.

“You’ve thought about my offer?” Cotton said.

Isaiah nodded weakly and drew in a painful breath. “You offer the same fear and hatred and loneliness I’ve known all my life.”

“But it
is
life. You can change your perspective on what that life means.”

“You can give me only one thing.”

“Name it,” Cotton said with a thin smile.

Isaiah took in a labored breath. “More stones.”

“Oh, you shall have them,” Cotton shouted. He waved his men over. “You shall have them all. Your time is up.”

Isaiah grunted as more rocks were piled onto his chest. His ribs splintered. “No, your time is up. Without me, you can’t win.”

“I will win,” Cotton said, “when I release your stained soul to hell.”

“Release him!”

“Release him!”

Isaiah heard the voice, but he did not know it. Then he heard thunder, or imagined he did. It might have been blood rushing through his ears.

The call came again. “Release him!”

“You heard Governor Danvers.” This time Isaiah recognized Alder’s voice. “The hunts are suspended. Set Isaiah free.”

A drop of rain splashed onto Isaiah’s face, and then another. Maybe Destiny had learned her new trick. Or maybe the time for rain had arrived. Either way, the drought had ended. And the hunts had ended. Isaiah smiled and released his final breath. He was already free.

Thread of the Past

Cleveland, Ohio – 1999

Franklin Castle

Angry flames poked holes through the gabled rooftop, extending into the midnight sky like Satan’s horns.

Loch Craven kicked open the door of the mansion, splintering the wood with a sharp crack. Black smoke billowed out, blurring his vision and filling his throat with the acrid stench of burning flesh. The fire hissed and spit from across the room, deafening. Immobilizing.

Children cried, their soft echoes an eerie siren amidst the snap and crackle of burning lumber. The weight of their screams felt trapped between his ribs, crushing his lungs.

Save the children.

Overhead a giant chandelier swung like a pendulum, threatening to fall. Crystal icicles, pointed at the wooden floor, clinked together in warning. Loch held his arm across his mouth to block the suffocating smoke and choked back his fear. Listened.

There….

Hang on, baby girl. I’m coming for you
.

Flames shot toward him like lizard tongues. Tears trailed down his cheeks. He sucked his throat closed and squinted through the fiery smog.

But his daughter did not emerge from the blaze.

The room was empty.

Yet the children still continued to scream.

Cleveland, Ohio – Present Day

Letitia Hawke couldn’t take it. One more schoolgirl giggle and she’d start cutting again.

She slid the ribbon cuff of her lace undershirt down to cover the thin vertical scars on her wrists. Not that anyone would notice. She and her classmates were crammed on a school bus like pigs led to slaughter—and if the rumors were true, that might not be far off the mark. The site of this year’s after-grad bash boasted a less-than-innocent past.

Ghost stories didn’t seem to bother the gaggle of girls in the front. They compared frilly pink dresses and pursed their shiny, glossed lips in admiration.

Or envy.

Backstabbing was a team sport at Cleveland Heights High.

Letitia didn’t fit in there. Or anywhere as best she could tell.

While the rest of the girls clung to gold clutches, Letitia’s leather pouch hung from one of the chain links around her waist. She wore tall, black lace-up boots instead of ankle-biting heels, clunky jewelry rather than Grandmother’s pearls.

And unlike the bulk of her graduating class, Letitia had no suitor to impress. She’d attend the celebration just as she had every other significant event in her high school years—alone.

Suck it up, Tish
.

She rubbed at her wrist. The pain had long ago subsided, but she could sometimes feel the sharp slice of the blade across her flesh. Back and forth. Over and over…

And then flashes of blood. So much blood…

Blood the color of the satin wrapped around her body. A tight corset cinched her already small waist, drawing attention to the row of Victorian coins that acted as buttons down the front of the ruby gown. A silver belt hid the stitching where the bodice met the long, flowing skirt, steeping her in a sophistication the school pom-pom pushers could never understand.

And sealing her status as a social pariah.

The ever-wise parent council had thought communal transportation would cut back on drinking and driving, and increase student bonding. But her classmates had given her a wide berth, opting to sit beside—or on top of—one another instead of anywhere near her on the bus. Obnoxious music with indiscernible lyrics blared from the front and back speakers, nearly drowning out the animated chatter of the slightly buzzed.