The Trouble With Witches (23 page)

I shoved my hands on my hips in frustration and took a deep breath. The strong scent of lavender and roses made my stomach lurch.

Yuck, I'd never sleep with that smell around me all night.

Grabbing the sachet, I crossed the room and shoved it in an empty dresser drawer. With a quick push, I closed the drawer. The scent was gone. And so was the buzzing.

Long streams of toilet paper hanging from bare branches swayed in the October wind. Dead leaves, hurried along by the wind, rattled like bones as they rolled down the street. Sounds of childish laughter rang out as little ghosts and goblins rushed from door to door, filling their bags with candy.

All
Hallow's
Eve.
Halloween.

In my dream, I walked up the path leading to the haunted mansion alone. Once a year, the old Johnson mansion became the site of chills and thrills as the Summerset Chamber of Commerce sponsored a haunted house for the local children. Jack the Ripper, Freddy from
Nightmare on Elm Street
, the Phantom of the Opera—all could be seen lurking in the corridors of the old house.

I brushed aside the fake cobwebs draped around the door and pushed it open. The house was strangely silent. At this time of the night there should have been the screams and shrieks of the terrified reverberating off the walls of the faded rooms. But I heard nothing.

Something tickled my cheek and I brushed it away. Looking up, I saw hundreds of tiny plastic spiders suspended by thin wires hanging from the ceiling. Dodging as many as I could, I went down the hall and into the room that would've been used as a parlor.

Velvet ropes blocked off most of the room. And from behind them I saw a figure of a man bound in chains. A small man with dark wavy hair, his well-developed muscles straining against the links that held him. I'd seen his face before on an old vaudeville poster: Harry Houdini. Looking like he came straight out of Madame
Tlissaud
.
A wax figure.
The Chamber had gone all out this year.

Across the hall, in the room that had been the dining room, a different wax figure stood in the center of the room.
A dignified figure with thick white hair that circled his head like a halo.
His hands were frozen in place above a lit
lightbulb
that seemed to float before him.
The famous Blackstone.

Turning away, I continued down the hallway to the staircase. The carved banister curved majestically toward the second storey, where pale light spilled onto the polished floor from one of the rooms above. Grabbing the banister, I climbed toward the light.

The room I viewed from the hallway was not roped off as the others had been. More spiders on invisible strings hung around the door. Sweeping them away, I shuddered and made a move to take a step forward, but something held me back.

Standing in the center of the room, behind a long table, was a figure dressed in a black robe, a hood obscuring his face. In the light of the fire, the shadow he cast loomed like a huge bat on a wall covered in peeling paper. He had one arm outstretched as if in supplication, while in the crook of his other arm he held a book.
A black book with strange gold writing on its cover.

To his right and to his left, tall, smoking braziers filled the air with an almost noxious odor. In front of the braziers, dark brown candles burned on the table. The candles were carved with the same strange writing as on the book.

But the black figure wasn't alone. Another wax figure lay prone on the table before him. This one dressed in white.

My eyes traveled up the body and stopped at the head. The hood covered most of the features, and I couldn't make out the face of the reclining figure. But from beneath the hood a strand of carrot-orange hair peeked out.

My heart slammed against my ribs and my mouth went dry.

Brandi?

I made a move to enter the room, but the man in the dark robe suddenly came to life and swung his outstretched arm toward me. Bony fingers pointed at me and unknown words poured out of the void where the face should've been.

I jumped back. He wasn't a wax figure after all.

With his words, the evil I'd felt at the abandoned cabin in the woods rushed at me in a surge. My knees gave way and I crumpled to the floor. With my forehead pressed against the cold wood floor, I felt the evil wash over me, its pressure threatening to crush me.

It's a dream, it's a dream
, I repeated in my mind.
And dreams can't kill you
.

But I felt like the life was being squeezed out of me.

I lifted my head, and when I did, the prone figure turned its face. I saw Brandi's eyes, round with terror, staring into mine.

She turned her head forward, and as she did, slowly pulled up into a sitting position as if controlled by hidden strings. Sitting there, she seemed to shrink, grow smaller. The hood fell back and the carrot-colored hair changed, growing lighter.

Her head rotated toward me again. Her mouth was pulled back in a feral grin. And the eyes of a hunter met mine from across the room.
Hungry eyes.
Violet eyes.

Oh my God!
Tink
!

Slowly I surfaced from my dream. My head felt heavy, so heavy that I had to struggle to lift it. Inside my mouth, my tongue seemed thick. I tried swallowing but my throat was too dry.

Was it a dream or a vision?
A prophecy or the circuits of my subconscious twisting reality into bizarre pictures?
I didn't know. Sitting up in bed, I turned on the light and pulled a notebook and pen from the drawer in the nightstand.

Okay, what was the setting of the dream?
A haunted house at Halloween.
Ghosts and witches, given my heritage—go figure.
Spiders?
The library had been infested with them when I'd left
Iowa
, and the problem had been unresolved. Maybe my brain was still stewing about the situation.

The cast of characters?
The three magicians?
Winnie had planted them in my head. Houdini and Blackstone were known to me, so they had faces in my dream.
But Von Schuler?
I'd never heard of him.
Understandable that his face would be hidden—my subconscious had no point of reference.
That left
Tink
and Brandi.

I had started out this trip concerned about the missing Brandi, but now, after what Juliet had told me about
Tink
, my concern extended to her, too.
The poor kid.
In a way, even though she was surrounded by people, she was as lost as Brandi.

I snapped the notebook shut. There, I'd explained away the dream. That's all it was—a dream.

One little detail niggled at me.
The book.
Where had that element come from?
It's a book; I'm a librarian
? Nope, that explanation didn't feel right.

I chewed at my lip while my eyes skimmed the room. They stopped when my runes caught my attention. I hadn't used them since the night before we'd left for
Minnesota
. The question had been, "What would we find in
Minnesota
?" The runes had answered, "
Pertho
"—mystery and magic.

I snorted. They'd been right.

What would they tell me now? I blew out a breath. I wasn't up to doing a reading.
But wait, what about a quick check? Stick my hand in the bag, draw a rune, and see what it means
?
Worth a shot.

Picking up the pouch, I imagined a white light surrounding me and peace flowing through me. As a sense of calm settled in my heart, I opened the bag and touched the stones. I felt each rune, waiting for that one special stone to give me a familiar tingle, to speak to me. Nothing happened.

I tried again. The runes felt cool and smooth against my palm.
But nothing else.
Not even a trickle of energy pricked at my fingertips.

The runes were silent.

Frustrated, I withdrew my hand and returned the pouch to the nightstand. I rubbed my forehead; my headache was back. And this time aspirin wouldn't cut it.

I threw on my robe and went to the kitchen to brew the tea Abby had recommended earlier. After putting the kettle on to boil, I stood at the stove waiting. A soft touch on my arm had me whirling around in surprise.

"Dang it, Abby," I said, clutching my chest. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

Dressed in her flannel robe with her thick silver hair hanging in a braid over her shoulder, she looked concerned. "You're pale." She placed her hands on either side of my face. "Sit down. I'll finish the tea."

Pulling out a chair, I sat at the table.
Before long Abby set a steaming cup of tea in front of me.

She joined me on the other side of the table and waited to speak until I'd finished most of the hot tea.

"Better?"

"Yeah."
I reached across the table and took her hand. "Thanks."

She gave my hand a quick squeeze. "You're welcome. Now what's going on?"

I withdrew my hand and scrubbed my face. "Oh," I said with a long sigh. "I don't know. I don't know—"

"Why don't you start at the beginning, dear?" Abby asked gently.

Quickly I related all that had happened since I'd left for dinner with the Finches.

"So do you think my dream was simply something out of my subconscious, too?" I asked.

A thoughtful look crossed Abby's face.
"Could be."

I let out another sigh.
A sigh of relief.
"I'm so glad you agree with me."

"But…"

Crap, why does there always have to be a "but"?

"What about the book? What would trigger that appearing in your dreams?" she asked.

I shook my head. "I don't know."

"Do you remember what the symbols were?"

"I think so," I said, trying to picture the book in my mind. "If you have a piece of paper, I think I could draw them."

A look of fear crossed Abby's face. "No," she said emphatically. "We don't know what they are or what they mean. To draw them could invoke something we don't know how to deal with."