I could hear Abigail’s flesh crawling, the hair on the back of her neck stiffening, her heart pounding rapidly, her eyes dilated. “Why did you bring me here? I told you I couldn’t help you.”
“Abigail, I brought you here to show you that magic--good and bad-- is everywhere. Running home to Chicago won’t save you. The reckoning follows you wherever you go. It has you marked for some fate. Powers brought you to Asheville and brought others here to help protect you. Lionel couldn’t but I can.”
“Pixel, too. Me protect Abigail,” Pixel said.
Tracker barked and circled Abigail, gazing up at her with his ghost blue eyes. “Once we find the ninth Wiccan and close the coven each of them will protect you, too. This is where you need to be, Abigail.”
“Who is this medium that Wesley was talking about?”
“This is the first time he’s ever spoken of her. He was telling you not me, Abigail. Someone wanted you to know. We need to find out who she was.”
Biltmore Forest
Biltmore Forest is a community of exquisite homes and exclusive lifestyles. Tucked into a corner carved out of the woods surrounding the Biltmore Estate, it was its own little enclave. I walked these trails for many years. Like the woods I grew up in, this forest holds many mysteries. Some of the trees have stood here for hundreds of years, others were uprooted from foreign continents at the command of a scion, an heir to the throne of a railroad tycoon’s fortune. George Vanderbilt carved his island into the North Carolina dirt to reap the rejuvenating benefits of the mountain air. His master landscape engineer Frederick Law Olmsted built his new world out of pieces of the old world, bamboo trees from the Orient, walnut from the Black Forest. Each turn of the path brought a new vista of Olmsted’s vision. He was an alchemist, experimenting with different flora and fauna. I had slept many nights out in these woods, listening to the trees.
I led Abigail over to a Rowan tree that had provided me shelter over many nights. Flashes of the crescent moon filtered through its bony branches. I rubbed my scent against the tree. Pixel did the same. Tracker ran off, chasing a squirrel. “This is my family tree, Abigail. The mountain ash,” I said. “Using the term family tree to trace your heritage began with the Druids back in Ireland. They worshipped all the trees especially the oak. Families tethered their lives to their family tree. I feel most at home with the ash.”
“Pixel like.” He purred loudly, rubbing against the tree again. “Me family tree, too.”
Abigail sat down under the tree. Pixel sat in her lap, arching his back as she stroked his fur. Abigail pulled a silver knife out of her backpack, studying it. “Why did you have me bring this, Terra?”
“Elizabeth warned me about testing such unproven magic. Black magic will be drawn to us. Magic knows magic. If evil does come, we must be prepared for it,” I told her. “Until we discover each individual Wiccan’s power, they are vulnerable but once they are united as a coven they will be protected.”
“There’s only eight but you told me you need nine to have a closed coven?”
“I sense there’s another Wiccan in Asheville. I haven’t found her yet. Until I do, we need to prepare the rest,” I said.
Before I could finish, we heard Tracker barking ferociously. He was standing behind Abigail, staring into the dark. Pixel ran up to Tracker’s side and growled, puffing himself up. Even with my cat’s eyes, I couldn’t see into the blue black of the unlit forest. The canopy overhead strangled out any moonlight but like Tracker and Pixel I could smell the pungent malignant creature. The smell of death. Tracker began to charge into the deep woods. Abigail grabbed him, holding him close. He strained against her, growling. “No, Tracker, no,” she cried out. And, then the smell was gone.
We rose and took to the path again on our way to Mrs. Tangledwood’s house. It rose up from the long driveway, a brick-and-stucco French chateau style, inspired by the Biltmore estate. The crescent moon reappeared over the top of the peaked gables. I counted six not seven. I wondered if Mrs. Tangledwood was aware she was one gable short. Abigail stood and marveled at the decadence that old money provided. “Does she live here by herself?” she whispered.
I didn’t answer. Abigail glanced at her torn jeans and worn leather jacket. Pixel cleaned his fur to make himself presentable. We stepped up to the 10-foot-high hand-carved wooden door that had previously kept guard at the entrance of a thirteenth century French monastery. Abigail knocked tentatively. A young servant woman opened the door and led us back toward the conservatory. The ladies were chattering away, sipping tea. I smelled several varieties but no nettle leaves. I could tell Abigail noticed also.
“Abigail, dear, you made it. I don’t know why you wouldn’t let me send a car for you.” Mrs. Tangledwood hugged Abigail, the diamond eternity necklace radiating in the moonlight. Her Jimmy Choos clicked on the marble entryway as she led us in. I noticed how far Mrs. Tangledwood had come since her awakening. She stopped by a vase of wilted roses and touched each stem bringing them back to life. She smiled at me. Indeed, her powers of rejuvenation had grown since I had last seen her. Tonight, I’d learn her bloodline and the powers that gave her that ability.
“Terra wanted to show me some of the surrounding woods,” Abigail said.
“Yes, of course, I’m glad you’re here now. Have a cup of tea and some petit fours. Cook just took them out of the oven.” Mrs. Tangledwood waved toward a small round table where we saw the elaborate trays of refreshments.
Pixel glanced at me for approval. I nodded my ok. He ran over to Mrs. Twiggs, jumped in her lap and begged for a bite of her raspberry macaroon. Abigail walked to the blazing fire. From her backpack, she retrieved the eight bundles of twigs we had collected as we walked through the Biltmore Forest. I walked up next to her and turned to the ladies who were still chattering.
“Ladies, ladies, please,” I said. They all stopped with their teacups midair and glanced down at me. Abigail placed the twigs by the fire. She closed the large French doors to the conservatory and switched the lights off. “Mrs. Stickman,” I said, “please come up to the fire.”
Mrs. Twiggs shifted on the velvet couch. “Oh, dear, isn’t someone going to explain to me what’s going on?”
Abigail translated for me. “Terra says she is so sorry, Mrs. Twiggs.” Abigail held up a bundle of twigs. “These are ash, oak and thorn branches. They’re tied with holly vines. According to Terra, it’s the magical trinity of the witch world. The holly vine binds the three to make them stronger just as combining the ladies of the Biltmore Society will make you stronger. She wants each one of you to stand by the fire as we burn a bundle of the twigs. The smoke will engulf you. This will allow Terra to see your true light, the aura that surrounds all souls.”
“I’ve read about similar ceremonies from many cultures that burn wood or incense. The Cherokee use birch to draw out bad spirits from their hunting grounds, Buddhist monks burn certain tea leaves, and early Appalachian settlers burned sage in the corners of the house to drive away bad spirits and bless their dwelling.” Mrs. Twiggs said, nodding her understanding.
After Mrs. Stickman threw her bundle into the fire, she waited. The twigs crackled, a plume of smoke rose from the fire and surrounded her. Her body lifted off the floor. She froze suspended a foot off the ground. I watched what the rest couldn’t see. The symphony of lights that danced around Mrs. Stickman. And then like the last seconds before death I could see Mrs. Stickman’s life story pass before me. Her years at boarding school, her nanny reading to her in a rocking chair, her birth, her cells forming into an embryo, her spirit racing along a string of DNA back to the beginning of her families’ bloodline. Before me stood not Mrs. Stickman but the good pagan witch of ancient Nigeria, Oya, goddess of violent storms. In the ancient years, the humans believed powerful witches were gods. Her colors were storm cloud gray and lightning yellow-white. Mrs. Stickman floated back to the floor, landing on her tiptoes softly. She woke out of her trance, shaking her head and staring intently at me. “I have the power to control the weather?” she asked.