The Thirteenth Sacrifice (17 page)

She pushed up with her hands and it felt as though the very life was being drained out of her and that in moments she would be as one of the corpses rotting in the ground. Suddenly she froze. There, in the dirt beneath the flowers, someone had drawn the symbol that burned on Samantha’s chest.

She scrambled backward even as a terrible suspicion took hold of her. They couldn’t be planning to raise Abigail, could they? But why would they want to? Why would they need to?

She pushed herself to her feet, afraid that she was going to vomit. She broke out in a cold sweat. It couldn’t be
true. Not after all this time. Who would remember, or care? She glanced around wildly but didn’t see anyone. Still, she couldn’t deny that something had been sucking the life from her while she was touching the grave.

For one terrible moment she wondered if Abigail’s power reached beyond the grave.

Get hold of yourself. She’s dead and buried. She can’t hurt you anymore,
she scolded herself.

Something that had been bothering her suddenly jumped to the front of her mind. It had been Abigail’s house where the party that Katie had attended was held. But how was that possible? The protections on that place were legion.

Unless someone knows how to take them down and put them back up again. Bridget. Could she have that much power? And is she the one who drew the symbol on Abigail’s grave and left the flowers and made it so that it sucked the life from those who come near it?

Whoever it was they were trying to raise, the very fact that they were attempting to do it, thought that they could, was a testament to how strong they must be. Raising someone took an incredible amount of power combined with absolute ruthlessness. It was not for the faint of heart, not something that could be done on a whim.

It would require careful planning. And she was suddenly sure that Abigail’s old house was once again truly being used as a center of activity. She should return and examine it more closely, but fear plucked at her heart, urging her to stay as far away from that place as possible.

It wasn’t just where Abigail had lived.

It was also where she had died.

Samantha turned and hurried back toward the street, eager to escape the cemetery before it revealed anything else to her.

She quickly began to retrace her steps and heaved a sigh of relief when she finally passed the Seven Gables house again.
When I get back to the hotel I’ll just have to perform a calming spell—

Samantha stopped in her tracks, horrified at what she’d just thought. She’d been back to doing magic for such a short time, and yet her thoughts already turned first to it.
No, not a spell! Pray, that’s what I have to do. Pray and meditate. Plan my next move, my next one hundred moves.

And some of those moves will involve doing more magic. I have to be prepared for it. But please, God, keep me from losing myself in it.

She shuddered suddenly. Someone was watching her. She turned her head slightly, wondering where the observer was.

“Samantha!”

She spun, prepared to defend herself, but then relaxed slightly when she saw Anthony walking briskly toward her.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi, yourself. Listen, I’ve been thinking. Would you like to grab some dinner?”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

She hesitated. She didn’t want to bring him into the middle of anything, but he might be able to help her. If he’d managed to get his hands on some of her coven’s things, then he had to be resourceful. She’d told the trio of witches that they could find her the next day at the Witchery. She believed there was a strong possibility that members of the coven might hunt her down at her hotel in the middle of the night. But until they reached out to her there was nothing more she could really do except troll for information.

And Anthony might be just the person she needed to talk to.

“Did I ask a difficult question?” he prompted, smiling uncertainly at her.

“No,” she said, smiling. “I had some work to do tonight, but I realized I could put it off. So I’m all yours for dinner.”

“Great. There’s this awesome restaurant called Nathaniel’s.”

She grimaced. “I’m staying at the Hawthorne and I was hoping to avoid eating there tonight. If I do, it will just remind me that I should be upstairs working.” It wasn’t true, but in case the witches decided to show early, she didn’t want them to see Anthony.

“Then away from the hotel it is,” he said. “How about seafood?”

“Fine.”

The truth was that at the moment, she felt fine about anything that didn’t remind her of the things that she was trying so hard to forget.

The way Abigail could glare and make a person crumble inside.

The fact that it was likely that someone else would die before she could infiltrate the coven.

The night of the massacre.

And most important of all, how much she loved doing the magic.

Because if she remembered that, then she’d truly be lost.

By evening, Samantha had gone back to her room, unpacked, changed clothes, and walked to the Whaler’s Inn. She met Anthony outside, and moments later they were seated in a booth, waiting for their food. The white tablecloth was topped with a small lantern and a vase holding a single red rose. A fire crackled on the hearth nearby and except for them the dining room was empty. The lighting was low and music played softly in the background. It was romantic.

And for a first date with a guy she didn’t know, it was
too
romantic. Especially considering that he had been all too eager to get away from her at breakfast. She looked at him suspiciously. Just exactly what did he want from her on this date?

Don’t think of this as a date,
she warned herself.
Think of him as a source, just another witness to interrogate.

But he was looking at her with his beautiful eyes and smiling at her in a way that made her pulse skitter out of control. It was crazy and uncharacteristic of her. Dating had never been her thing. Who would ever understand her, be able to cope with who she was, who she had been?

But staring at his face, lined with its own pain and shadows, she realized that if anyone could understand,
he could. That wasn’t enough, though. Because of what had happened to his mother, he would never be able to cope, to accept her. And after what her family had done to his, she had no right to lead him on, to hurt him any more than he’d already been hurt.

“I saw you coming out of the cemetery today,” he said gently.

She blinked in surprise. “How?”

“I was in the cemetery too. I was checking on my mother’s grave.”

And the sick feeling was back, knotting itself around her insides. She should never have accepted his dinner invitation. He was looking at her expectantly, clearly waiting for her to share.

“I was visiting my mother too,” she said at last.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s hard to lose a mother.”

“Thanks. And I’m sorry about yours.”

He shrugged. “It’s strange, you know. There are days where I still expect to see her at her favorite coffee shop or walking down the street. Even though it’s been years.”

“This place is haunted for you.”

He nodded. “I guess you could say so.”

“Why do you stay?” she asked.

A shadow seemed to pass across his face and his eyes hardened. “The coven that killed my mother, when they were slaughtered, there were rumors that one witch survived. I’ve spent the past sixteen years searching for that person.”

“Why?” Samantha asked, trying to still the sudden pounding of her heart, which no longer had anything to do with how attractive he was.

He smiled. “Let’s just say that revenge is a dish best served flambéed.”

“As in burning?” she asked.

“As in witch,” he said with a nod.

She winced. Had he figured out already who she was? She studied his face carefully as she chose her next words. “It’s been years. How do you even know the witch is still alive?”

“I can feel it, in here,” he said, tapping his chest over his heart. “If she were dead, I’d feel peace. Someday, though, I will feel that peace. And then—then maybe I can leave this place.”

“It seems like you’re just punishing yourself by staying here with the memories. Why not move on? I mean, how do you know the witch hasn’t done the same thing? For all you know, she’s practicing in Oregon or India. Maybe she’s not even a witch anymore.”

He smiled tightly. “Once a witch, always a witch. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that she had left the state. However, I stay because eventually she’ll come back. You see, I have something the witch will want. I figure in time she’ll find me.”

Is it one of those artifacts in the case?
she wondered.
My goblet, for instance?
She took a sip of her water, trying to look nonchalant instead of guilty or too curious. For the first time she felt sympathy for the murderers she had interrogated over the years. They had sat across from her at tables in cold gray rooms, sweating and praying that she wouldn’t discover the one bit of evidence that would damn them or that they wouldn’t say something that would seal their fate and send them to prison.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded quickly. “I was just thinking, that could be incredibly dangerous.”

“Some things are worth the risk,” he said. He smiled at her. “Like asking you out.”

For a moment her heart stopped, thinking that he had
guessed. But then she realized that he was just flirting. She forced herself to smile. “Hardly counts as risky compared to the other.”

“But still, a risk. I risked rejection because the potential reward seemed worth it.”

“You don’t even know me,” she protested.

“And yet I feel that I do. You’re smart, funny, and driven, just like I am. You’re curious and open to things that others dismiss out of hand.”

“Very observant of you,” she said, working hard not to squirm.

“You’re also looking for something. I know what it feels like to be looking for something. It makes me want to see you find it, whatever it is. If you tell me what it is you’re looking for, maybe I can help you find it.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, forcing a smile.

“I do. It will give me an excuse to spend more time with you. I can’t explain it; I just feel like for some reason I
need
to help you.”

“It could be very dangerous for both of us.”

He laughed. “I think you already pointed out that I tend to rush in where angels fear to tread. Come on. Let me help you.”

Samantha leaned across the table and touched his hand with hers. “All right. I too am looking for a witch.”

His lips parted in surprise. A moment passed, then another as he took in what she’d said. Finally he asked, “And you’re looking for this witch here?”

“I am.”

“Listen to me,” he said, gripping her hand tight. “Witches—
real
witches—are bad news. They don’t live by a code, they don’t respect life, law, anything. You don’t want to get mixed up with that.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“But I don’t have a choice. And I at least know something about them.”

“Yes, but do you know enough?” she countered. “Can you tell a witch from a Wiccan?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ve met hundreds of Wiccans. There’s thousands of Wiccans for every witch. And they tend to be nice, respectful people.” He looked at her suspiciously. “How do you know there’s a witch in Salem?”

“Haven’t you been watching the news? Those women who were killed in Boston?”

He relaxed visibly. “I saw the news. Those women were killed by occultists, maybe a serial killer or a sick college student with a penchant for murder. That’s why the pentagrams. No real witch would use that symbol. It used to be a Christian symbol representing the five wounds of Christ—head, hands, feet; the point draws the eye upward toward God. Those worshipping Satan profane the pentagram by instead turning it upside down. It’s not a witch symbol. Try telling that to the media, though. They scream
witch
at the first opportunity regardless of the truth. It’s dangerous and irresponsible.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more about the press. I want you to be careful, though, and keep your eyes open. Because, as improbable as it seems, witches are behind those murders.”

“How do you know all this?” he asked.

His mind was working on the problem and it would be only a matter of minutes before he came to the conclusion that she was a cop. And that knowledge was too dangerous for him to have. He might accidentally tell someone or unwittingly out her in front of the wrong person. For all she knew, he was working with one of the
witches. Better for him to hate her and keep her cover intact than risk blowing it. She made a swift decision.

“How do I know witches are behind it?” she asked softly.

He nodded.

She wrapped her hand around his water glass. Moments later the water began to boil. She let go and it stopped.

His lips moved and he mouthed the word “witch.” Then he bolted from the table and out of the restaurant. She got up to chase after him, but when she reached the sidewalk he was nowhere to be seen.

“Anthony!” she shouted.

There was no response. She could tell that he had turned to the left, so she followed. Three more swift turns and she was in an alley. He was hiding, but every instinct she had told her it would be bad to flush him out. Instead she stood in the middle of the space and spoke out loud.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you or frighten you. I’m not going to do anything to you, but I could use your help. Please believe me—I’m not your enemy.”

There was no response. She waited for a minute and then said softly, “Okay, but I hope you change your mind.”

She left and walked slowly back to her hotel, hoping he would catch up to her. When he didn’t she was mostly relieved but also somewhat disappointed. She got to her room and sat down with a sigh. She’d made a mistake, revealed herself too fast. But it was better if he steered clear of her, fearing her, than if he knew that she was a police officer. That was the awful thing about deep cover. Nobody aside from the officer’s handlers was supposed to know the truth.