The Thirteenth Sacrifice (34 page)

Samantha didn’t know how to respond. She sat quietly, though her mind was racing.

“You know why they raised me?” Abigail asked at last. “Because of the secrets I took to my grave.”

“What secrets?” Samantha asked. It was a good question. Both she and the witch she was pretending to be would want to know.

The old woman cackled. “I left a book of my knowledge, spells, but one spell I left only half complete on purpose. That’s the one they’re after. That’s the one they want to be able to perform and so they needed me to do it.”

“Which one?” Samantha asked, her heart beginning to hammer in her chest.

“How to raise the demon, of course,” Abigail said, a look of triumph in her eyes.

Samantha shuddered. “No,” she whispered, unable to stop herself.

Abigail cocked her head and looked at her sharply. “What do you know of it, child?”

Samantha looked back at her, studying her, and realized that Abigail didn’t remember.

The most important night in both of their lives and neither of them remembered it.

She fought the urge to laugh hysterically. It was so unreal, so ironic. She stared at the old woman and forced herself under control. She chose her words very carefully. “I know that trying to raise the demon is what killed you, what killed everyone.”

“How?” Abigail asked, sharp eyes probing her features even as Samantha had just probed hers.

“I don’t remember.”

“Nonsense!”

Samantha shook her head.

Abigail put both hands on her face, pinning her eyes with hers. “Tell me, child!”

Samantha whimpered. She could feel Abigail pulling at her mind, trying to dislodge the memories. She tried to jerk back but the old woman held on. Samantha began to scream. She could feel fire and smell blood. It was a flash of memory. But that was all there was.

Abigail released her and pushed away in her chair, swaying for a moment as she regained her equilibrium. “You don’t remember,” she said thoughtfully.

“I told you I don’t.”

Abigail smiled. “You know, neither do I. We’re going to have to remember together.”

Abigail stood swiftly, startling her.

“I look forward to it,” the old woman said.

She turned and swept out of the room, leaving Samantha stricken. She continued to sit for several minutes in the library, long after the witch had left the hotel. Finally she stood and made her way upstairs.

Once in her room, she grimaced as she glanced at the two bodies in the bathtub. She grabbed her bag filled with the tools of magic that she had taken from her mother’s house and began to inventory everything in it. Halfway through she stopped, fear gnawing at her. She wasn’t prepared to take on Abigail and the others. There was too much she didn’t know.

She sat on the bed, crossing her legs. The room itself was vibrating with weird energies, all the residue from the events of the past few days. She was going to have to do some serious work to clear them before she left or someday teams of ghost hunters would be passing through
with EMF readers and other equipment looking for ghosts when all that would be there would be the echo of her tenure and the battles she had fought.

She worked to clear her mind so she could focus. After a few minutes her breathing slowed and she again pictured in her mind the corridor lined with doors. The door marked with the number 5 was open, as she had been promised it would stay, and the little girl stood just inside it, waving solemnly. Samantha smiled at her before looking toward the other doors. Door 6 was open also, but she caught only a glimpse of the girl inside.

She stood for a moment between doors 6 and 7 before reaching out her hand and turning the knob of door 7. It opened slowly and frightened green eyes peered out at her from the darkness beyond.

“Why are you here?” the little girl asked cautiously.

“To remember.”

“You don’t want to do that. I know.”

“I have to,” Samantha said, feeling the girl’s sorrow in her own heart. “Even if I don’t want to.”

The phone in her room rang, snapping her back to the present. She reached for it. “Hello?”

“You know, you really need to give me your cell number,” Anthony said.

“I’m told it wouldn’t help,” she said.

“Okay. Anyway, I’ve got the name of the doctor who worked on me. He’s not here today. John Lynch. He lives here in town. Got a pen?”

She grabbed a piece of the hotel stationery and jotted down the address he gave her. “Got it,” she said when he was finished.

“I can come pick you up,” he offered.

“No. I need you to get out of town. Things are going to get really bad.”

“I’m not leaving and if you try to make me I’ll likely do something foolish.” In her heart she knew he wasn’t bluffing. He wanted to see justice done even more than she did. “Okay, go back to the museum. Dig up everything you can for me about the original coven—papers, artifacts, whatever you’ve got. Abigail mentioned something about leaving a spellbook behind.”

He frowned. “I’ve never seen one.”

“But someone got hold of it. If I can figure out how or who, that might help.”

“That will take very little time. What’s not on display I keep in my safe.”

“Perfect. I’ll meet you there in about an hour. Be careful. If anyone sees you—”

“I know the risks,” he said softly. “It’s just not in me to be on the sidelines. Especially not now, not with my mother’s killer walking the streets.”

“Be careful,” she whispered.

“You too,” he said before he hung up.

She knew the street the doctor lived on. If Abigail had separated from the others, with any luck he had gone home and she could catch him there. She pulled a small vial out of the bag she had brought with her from her mother’s house. Very carefully she dipped the tip of her athame into it. Then she let it dry and placed the dagger in a sheath that she belted to her waist. Her shirt fell over it, hiding its presence. She hurried downstairs, noting that the lobby was even more packed than it had been half an hour earlier.

Fifteen minutes later she had turned onto John Lynch’s street. She didn’t need to look at the address; she could sense the house as she approached it. She steeled herself as she mounted the steps to the porch. She could feel the witch inside, which meant he could feel her as well. It was dangerous to attack him in his
own home, but she didn’t see that she had much choice, especially since he had gone to such efforts to protect his identity from the majority of the others.

She knocked on the door. A moment later he cracked it open. He was tall, with a shock of white hair and blue eyes that were crinkled in concern.

“Abigail sent me,” she said shortly, pushing past him into the house.

It had the intended response. He closed the door and turned to her, arms folded defensively across his chest. “What does she want?”

“She wants to congratulate you, John, on the success of the toxin you engineered to start the witch riots.”

Pride flashed across his face. “It took me months to get that just right.”

“It’s worked brilliantly,” she said, smiling conspiratorially at him. “Now she wants to discuss phase two.”

“Phase two?” he asked, suddenly unsettled. “What phase two?”

“Let’s sit and talk,” Samantha suggested.

“Sure.” He led the way to a living room and motioned her toward a seat on the couch while he took a chair. She glanced around, casually looking for anything she, or he, might be able to use as a weapon while she debated how far she could take the conversation without tipping her hand.

At a moment like this she wished Ed were with her. She’d seen him play it cool for a long time, stringing people along and questioning them without their once realizing it.

“Abigail wants to know how long before we can spread this virus globally.”

“Globally?” he asked, his eyes bulging slightly. “I didn’t realize her ambitions reached that far.”

“The one thing you should know, Doctor, is that there is no constraint on Abigail’s ambition.”

“I see. Well, it loses potency after it’s passed to the fourth person in any given chain. With some help I could boost that, which would considerably speed the spread. I could work up some time frame estimations for her, with and without modification.”

“That would be excellent. She’d also like your assessment on potential roadblocks to dissemination.”

He smiled again. “There’s no way to guard against the toxin. Anyone predisposed to mistrust or dislike witches is automatically infected.”

“And as we know, that’s most people,” she said with a smile. “Abigail also has plans to maintain close ties with a few normal people in key strategic positions both here and abroad. These are people who might be swayed to her cause without trusting her completely. She doesn’t necessarily want them destabilized, so she wants to know about immunization.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing that can be given prior to exposure. However, there is, of course, a cure that can be passed. I can easily teach her how to administer it through a simple touch.”

“An antidote. That’s fine, but does it carry the risk of itself being spread through touch, just like the disease?”

“Yes. That’s why she’ll want to be extremely selective about who she administers it to and when.”

“Of course. We wouldn’t want to undo all your good work.”

Something flickered in his eyes and she realized that somewhere she had pushed too far.

He moved but she was faster. She threw her athame and it nailed him in the leg. She followed it, slamming
her hand into his chest and yanking all the energy from him.

“What are you doing?” he shouted.

“What you and the others did to me,” she hissed.

His eyes bulged. “Something’s wrong.”

“I should say so. I painted the tip of that knife with death adder venom.”

“You’re insane!”

“No, just highly motivated. Now, you tell me how to cure the toxin or I’ll sit here and watch you die.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You saw me kill Bridget. What do you think?”

“Abigail will have your head for this,” he said, wheezing.

“She and I have a very complicated relationship. But don’t you worry, we’ll work it out in the end,” she said. “Now tell me how to reverse it or I’ll help speed that venom toward your heart. And trust me, with the amount of energy I’ve just taken from you, you’ll never be able to heal yourself if it gets there.”

“I can give you the cure,” he said, lifting a hand toward her.

“Just tell me how to do it.”

“You can’t administer it to yourself. It doesn’t work that way. Someone else has to do it for you.”

She debated briefly, but there was no one else she could trust to do it for her. She was just going to have to take a chance. “If you try
anything
, I’ll make sure you die in the most agonizing way possible,” she promised him.

He lifted his hand. He touched her arm and she could feel something flash through her, like blinding light. For a single moment she could feel every atom of her body and it was beautiful and terrible all at the same time.
And then she could feel the fear and paranoia releasing their grip on her.

She looked down at him and he nodded. “It’s working. The energy I released into your body seeks out and binds to the toxin energy and together they become inert. They cancel each other out.”

“What side effects?” she asked.

“None.”

“And if I touch other infected people?”

“The cure will spread to them, just like the original toxin. You won’t have to do a thing. And then they’ll spread it to the people they touch, and so on.”

“And what if the cure spreads to someone who’s not infected?”

“They’ll be high for a week, like they’re living on air. And eventually it will fade and they will return to normal. It really is ingenious,” he said.

“Yeah, you should win the Nobel Prize,” she snapped.

“Okay, I helped you. Now it’s your turn.”

She yanked her athame from his leg, wiping the blade on his shirt before reholstering it. “Sorry. I’m not going to help you.”

“But you promised!”

“I promised to kill you if you didn’t help me. No, I’ve left you just enough energy that you’ll be able to heal yourself if you’re half the doctor you think you are. But I wouldn’t want to be you for the next twenty-four hours. And you’re most certainly going to lose that leg.”

She headed for the door and stopped as he shouted after her. “You won’t be so smug in a few hours!”

She spun. “Why? What happens in a few hours?”

“All your games, all your machinations, and you don’t know?” he said. “You should ask your friend at the museum.
Oh, wait—you won’t be able to do that because by the time you get there he’ll already be dead!”

She turned and ran out the door. She hit the sidewalk and ran at a full sprint for the Museum of the Occult. Anthony had been right. He had something the witches wanted. And they knew that he was alive. She had known she wouldn’t be able to keep that secret for long, but she had hoped to at least protect him. Instead she had sent him into a trap.

She had to reach him before the others did. She hit the wall of people as she neared Essex Street. With a shout she sent a wave of energy ahead of her, shoving them out of the way before she reached them. She was less than a block away when she heard an explosion.

Fear gave her more speed and she vaulted over a woman who had tripped in front of her. Samantha had gone only a few feet when she staggered to a halt.

The museum was gone. Only a pile of rubble marked the spot where it had been.

Dust and debris still drifted down from the sky and Samantha screamed. Up and down the block bewildered bystanders were picking themselves up and brushing themselves off. She was too late. The witches had what they had come for. But what of Anthony?

“Anthony!” she shouted as she pushed away the debris. She tried to calm down, to reach out and feel and see if she could sense life under the rubble, but her mind was racing so fast with fear that she couldn’t.

She moved one chunk of wall to the side and saw a leg, a bone jutting out of it. Her hands flew to the remaining rubble on top and she began to dig. She was dimly aware of others gathering behind her. Someone else crouched down nearby and also began digging. In the distance she could hear the wail of a siren.