Witch Catcher (3 page)

Unfazed by the ruckus, Tink stared steadily at the globe, his ears pricked, his tail twitching.

Determined to get the globe, I grabbed a rickety old chair and hefted it onto the table. After making sure it was strong enough to hold me, I stood on the seat and tried again to reach the globe. Grabbing it at last, I climbed down carefully and wiped the glass with the bottom of my T-shirt. I turned the globe this way and that, admiring its spiraling pattern of green, blue, purple, and gold. Where all the colors con verged, I discovered a little spout, tightly stoppered with a cork. The glassblower must have put it there for some reason, but I had no idea why.

Tink rose on his hind legs and sniffed the globe. Dropping down on all four paws, he shivered and clicked his teeth as if he saw a mouse. But his eyes were on the globe.

"What's so interesting?" I asked him.

He mewed and reared up to reach for the globe.

"Don't," I said. "You'll break it."

I hid the globe under my shirt and hurried down the narrow steps. It was later than I thought, and I was worried Dad would call me for lunch. Shoving the tower door shut, I tried to relock the padlock, but as I fumbled with it, the rusty old thing fell apart in my fingers. Not knowing what else to do, I left the padlock on the ground and sneaked out of the bushes. With Tink bounding ahead, I ran across the lawn, hoping with every step that Dad wouldn't look out the window and see me.

In a few seconds, I was safe on the terrace behind the house, peering through the screen door. Dad was still working under the sink. He didn't see Tink or me sneak past him and tiptoe upstairs.

Leaving Tink in the hall, I locked the bathroom door and scrubbed the globe till it sparkled. When I held it up to the window, the sun shone through its rainbow of colors, casting a reflection on the floor—pale green, blue, gold, and violet shadows as delicate as moonlight.

Later I'd tell Dad I found the globe in one of the empty rooms. Or up in the attic. Or down in the basement. But for now I decided to keep it a secret.

Tink was waiting when I opened the bathroom door. Eyes fixed on the globe, he followed me to my room and watched me hide it behind a stack of games on a shelf in my closet.

"You stay away from this," I whispered to the cat. "It's not a toy for you to bat around the floor."

Tink clicked his teeth again and lashed his tail.

I shut the closet door just as Dad called, "Jen, how about giving me a hand with lunch?"

Not long after we finished our grilled-cheese sandwiches, the doorbell rang. Dad got to his feet quickly, his face flushed. "That must be Moura," he said. "Please be polite, Jen. She's our guest."

I followed him to the door, more curious than I cared to admit. A tall, slender woman stood on the porch, her narrow face paler than the moon on a December night. Her long hair was black, parted in the middle, and touched here and there with strands of silver. The frames of her tinted glasses slanted up at the ends, cat's-eye style. She wore a silky white blouse under a crimson vest, a long, swirly black skirt, and high-heeled sandals. Around her neck was a deep red stone pendant on a delicate silver chain. Matching earrings swayed when she moved her head. Her long nails were polished scarlet, and her lipstick was scarlet, too. Her fingers sparkled with rings.

I stared at Moura, fascinated by her stylish clothes and sophistication. I had to admit she was beautiful, but there was something indefinably scary about her. Moving closer to Dad, I reached for his hand and held it tight.

Moura had parked close to the house. Her car was black and low slung, as sleek as a racer. In the passenger seat was a slim black dog, just as elegant as his mistress. Expensive, I thought. And possibly dangerous. Most likely an enemy of cats.

"Hello, Hugh," Moura said, smiling at Dad. "I hope I'm not too early, but business was slow today." Her voice was low and husky, tinged with an accent of some sort—not exactly British, not exactly Irish or Scottish, but a little like all three.

"We've just finished lunch. Please come in." Dad stood back to let her enter. I'd never seen him so happy to see someone.

Moura's skirt rustled as she followed Dad into the living room and settled herself in an armchair. I expected her to remove her glasses, but she kept them on.

Dad took a seat on the sofa opposite her and beckoned to me. "Moura, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Jen," he said.

Remembering my manners, I crossed the room and shook hands with the woman. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Winters." I forced a smile to show her I was definitely not in need of mothering—especially from her.

"The pleasure is mine." Moura bared perfect teeth in a perfect smile. Her voice was soft and low, but the hand holding mine was as cold as her name. Releasing me, she added, "I've heard so much about you, Jen."

I blushed, knowing exactly what she'd heard. "Oh. you can't believe everything Dad says," I told her.

"I hope you'll visit me in my shop," Moura went on. "The Dark Side of the Moon, it's called. I have a fine collection of antique dolls. But perhaps you're too old for such things." She sighed and glanced at Dad. "Girls grow up so fast these days."

Did Moura think I was too grown-up? Tall, skinny me in my T-shirt and shorts? Most people thought I was younger than twelve. Ten, maybe. Coming from someone else, I might have felt complimented by her words, but Moura spoke as if growing up too fast was one of the evils of modern times. So I shrugged and toyed with my ponytail.

"Is that your dog in the car?" I asked.

Moura smiled. "His name is Cadoc. Do you know what that means?"

I shook my head. "It has an interesting sound," I ventured, but scary was more like it.

"In the Welsh language it means warrior. And that's what Cadoc is. My warrior, my protector."

"Warrior," I echoed, smiling stiffly. But I couldn't help wondering why Moura needed a warrior to protect her. She certainly didn't appear to be a helpless woman.

"Do you know the Welsh legends?" Dad asked her.

"Oh, yes," Moura purred. "I've read every version of
The
Mabinogion
I can find. The stories are laden with romance and magic and mystery. Ancient, yet modern. Full of meaning."

"I love
The Mabinogion
myself," Dad said. "It isn't often I meet someone who's even heard of it." He looked as pleased as if she'd given him a present. "The longer I know you, the more you surprise me. It's amazing how much we have in common."

If I hadn't been there, I was sure he would have kissed her. Instead, he contented himself by gazing at her like a teenager in love.

In the silence, Moura's eyes roamed the room, taking in Great-Uncle Thaddeus's possessions, assessing them, assessing Dad, assessing me.

"Would you like to examine my great-uncle's things now?" Dad asked, apparently not noticing Moura already had.

"Yes, of course," she murmured, "if it's convenient, Hugh."

I followed them from room to room, watching them pore over paintings, old books, furniture, glassware, china, and silver. How she saw anything through those dark glasses was a mystery worthy of
The Mabinogion—
whatever that was.

Finally, bored beyond belief, I went to my room to read. Tink opened one sleepy eye when I flopped down beside him on the bed.

I opened
The Woman in White,
an old-fashioned mystery I'd found in Great-Uncle Thaddeus's library, but I couldn't concentrate on the story. Not with Moura downstairs with my father. I kept thinking of the expression on his face when the doorbell rang, the way he'd leapt up to let her in, his flushed face, the look in his eyes.

He couldn't ready be in love with her, not Dad. Unlike some of my friends' divorced fathers, he'd never shown the least interest in finding a girlfriend. He was a nice-looking man, tall and lanky, with a full brown beard, but his hair was thinning and he had no style. Today he was wearing an old navy polo shirt so faded it was almost gray. His jeans were white at the knees, the seams frayed, and they hung loosely on him.

Even if Dad were in love with Moura, why would she love him? Moura, owner of Cadoc, the warrior dog; Moura, with her perfect black hair and her beautiful clothes; Moura, with her sleek black sporty car; Moura, with her chilling eyes and smile. Moura, who made me feel uncomfortable, ugly, and dull.

Yet with all her glamour, she seemed to return Dad's interest. Did she think my father was rich? Was she after the house and its contents? Who knew what Moura wanted? Great-Uncle Thaddeus's antiques? Dad's heart? Maybe both.

I shouldn't have left my father alone with her. Tossing my book aside, I ran downstairs, fearful of what Moura might have said or done in my absence.

I
FOUND THEM IN
the kitchen having tea and talking softly.

"How did you ever end up in a boring little town in the mountains of West Virginia?" Dad was asking Moura.

She smiled. "It's a long story, Hugh."

Dad reached for her hand. "I love long stories."

When I cleared my throat loudly, Moura looked at me. She'd finally removed her glasses. They lay on the table beside her cup, casting colored shadows on the tablecloth. Her eyes were large and a light greenish gray, the pupils ringed with yellow.

"Have a seat, Jen." Moura motioned toward a chair. Her lips curved briefly into a smile that didn't reach her strange eyes. Somehow she made me feel unwelcome without being anything but polite.

Reluctantly, I slid into the seat and sat there tongue-tied with discomfort, the third person, totally unnecessary. Dad patted my hand, but I had a feeling he wished I hadn't interrupted the conversation.

Cadoc lay at Moura's feet, his head resting on her sandals. When he saw me. he raised his head and stared with eyes as pale and cold as his mistress's. Although he didn't growl, I moved my chair away, ready to run if he so much as opened his mouth. I was glad Tink hadn't followed me downstairs.

Moura patted the dog's head. "Cadoc won't hurt you, Jen," she said. "Come closer."

Feeling childish, I forced myself to do as she said. Her perfume was strong, cloying. It made my head ache just to sit near her. And her eyes ... When she looked at me, I wished she'd kept her glasses on.

"Cadoc," Moura said, "this is Jen."

The dog sat up and extended a paw for me to shake. I took it gingerly, feeling the hard claws housed in soft fur and velvety footpads. "Pleased to meet you," I lied.

The introduction finished, I backed away from Moura and her dog, relishing the distance from both of them.

"Isn't he amazing?" Dad asked me. "Moura has trained that dog perfectly."

I nodded, but I was glad to see Cadoc lie down again.

"Perhaps we could take a walk with Cadoc one fine day," Moura suggested to me. "I know a lovely path by the river."

Dad went on for a while about how much fun it would be to ramble through the woods with the scariest dog I'd ever seen. Of course, he didn't think Cadoc was scary. No, he was Moura's dog and just as perfect as she was.

During a lull in the conversation, I asked Moura what she thought of Great-Uncle Thaddeus's things.

She smiled. "The house is full of treasures—paintings, sculpture, porcelain, silver, old books. If your father wants to sell his great-uncle's possessions, he'll be a rich man indeed. Why, the dining-room furniture alone is worth at least fifteen thousand dollars."

I stared at her, absolutely amazed. "Who on earth would pay that much for old furniture?"

"Collectors," Moura said, "dealers, maybe even a museum. The set is solid walnut, handcrafted, and in perfect condition."

I turned to Dad. "Are you going to sell it?"

He shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. We just moved in, Jen. I want to live with Uncle Thaddeus's things for a while before I make any decisions."

When Dad paused to sip his tea, Moura turned to me, her eyes keen. "I was expecting to find something I was told your uncle owned," she said slowly, "but I didn't see it anywhere."

"What were you looking for?" I asked.

"A glass globe, about this big." Moura cupped her hands to show me. "It's decorated with a swirling pattern of colors. There's a little spout on one side and a loop at the top so it can be hung in a window."

While Moura described my globe, I drank my tea silently. I didn't dare look at my father for fear I'd give myself away. The globe was mine. I'd found it, and I wasn't going to give it to anyone—especially Moura.

"Some people call it a sun catcher," Moura went on, "but its original name was witch catcher. In the old days, superstitious people believed the pretty pattern in the glass had the power to draw witches and other evil creatures through the spout and into the globe. Trapped inside, the witch was powerless."

"Is that right?" Dad leaned toward Moura, amused by her story.

More worried than amused, I studied the tea leaves in my cup, wishing I could tell my own fortune. I was haunted by the girl I'd seen in the painting, her hands pressed against what I'd thought was a glass wall. Had Great-Uncle Thaddeus captured a witch in that globe? Was she at this very moment hidden in my closet?

Moura smiled her strange smile. "Well, it's certainly true that the globes were called witch catchers, and people hung them in their windows to protect themselves." She stared for a moment into her own teacup, her long slender fingers curved around the fragile china. "Today witch catchers are valued for their beauty, but I find their history fascinating. Suppose the old superstitions are true and witches actually are held captive in those pretty globes? Suppose you broke one and the witch escaped?"

As she spoke, Moura gazed directly at me. Her voice was light, even playful, but the expression in her eyes was anything but humorous.

I shrugged and looked away. If Moura thought she could scare me into confessing I had the trap, she was mistaken.

"Nonsense," Dad said with a laugh. "These days, you won't find witches roaming the countryside just waiting to be trapped in glass globes."

"You'd be surprised," Moura said in a voice so low Dad didn't seem to hear. But I did. Maybe because she was looking at me, not my father. Despite myself, I shivered. Was she warning me? Or just trying to scare me?