Charlotte shyly waved.
I heard a rustling in the storage room. The door was cracked. I peeked in to see a shadow crawling up the wall. I watched as the tail disappeared into the shadow mouth and Pixel muttered, “Yummy.” I felt my stomach growl. No matter how much I fight the feline urges, they still take me. I wanted to join in the hunt with Pixel.
I heard footsteps outside the storage room. I smelled Miss Hartwell and Charlotte. “Let’s make an early evening of it. There’s a lot to do before the estate sale,” Miss Hartwell said. “These old hens will be cackling all night.”
“Okay, Miss Hartwell,” Charlotte said.
After all the ladies had left, Mrs. Twiggs locked the door and settled onto the chair by the fire, raising her feet onto the stool. Abigail sat across from her, an early copy of Tom Sawyer in her lap. I jumped on the back of the chair and peered over her shoulder, purring. I had met its author on my earlier travels and found him charming.
Abigail reached up and rubbed my chin. My eyes closed, and sleep took me.
Chapter 5
1862
Asheville Highway
I know I’m dreaming. The reason I know I’m dreaming is because I’m walking behind Agatha Hollows. I remember this trail from Asheville into South Carolina. She said nothing as we walked, our feet laden with the weight of the heavy red clay that clings to us. An occasional wagon passes our way, pushing us to the side and deeper into the mud. Agatha doesn’t rest. I am cold, and my fur is coated with the mud. My steps are heavy with its weight, but I won’t stop. I won’t let Agatha know I’m in pain, but I sense from her stooped shoulders that she feels the same pain. We hear horses behind us, closing in at a quick pace. Agatha hides in the tall pines lining the road. We watch as the gray coats ride by. It is twilight. She searches the sky trying to fix her direction, then continues deep into the woods. She walks light-footed, no snapping twigs, no footprints behind her, as though not touching the ground. My eyes close as I walk, relying on my sense of smell and hearing. It’s now pitch-black; a blue-black darkness covers the stars and there is no moon to give light. Agatha settles under a white oak. I want to wake up. I don’t like this part. I know what happens next, and I don’t want to remember. I feel a bite on my neck and open my eyes to see Pixel.
“Bad dream, Terra, bad dream,” he scolds.
Pixel’s moist saucers stared into my eyes. “Go away.” I swatted at him with one paw. “Pixel, I’m okay, go away.” Cats don’t cry, but if we did I think Pixel would have shed a tear. He looked so crestfallen. He has such a good heart I feel bad when I scold him, but the dream left me in a bad mood. It was almost as draining as the dreams from when I was a girl back in Salem.
The fire had died out and the room was cold. The cuckoo clock behind the register sang three times for three a.m., the witching hour. I smiled to myself. Nothing to worry about. After all I am a witch. Elizabeth had once told me the history behind the witching hour. Goodness taken from the earth two thousand years ago at three p.m. Evil walks the opposite of that time. A myth I thought when I was a little girl, but since my turning I’ve seen many dark creatures during the witching hour. The humans don’t know the difference between white magic and black magic. That’s why the Ladies of the Biltmore Society must keep their secret. My coven in Salem did not keep the secret, and it cost them their mortal lives and led me to my current form. “Pixel,” I yelled out. “I’m sorry.”
Pixel sat in the doorway between the reading room and dining room, his back turned to me. The twitching of his tail was the only indication he had heard me. I did have a bad dream, and it left me in a grumpy mood.
“Grumpy cat,” Pixel said, running over to tackle me. We had watched a video on YouTube of a grumpy cat. Pixel found him hysterical.
Mrs. Twiggs would be waking in a few hours and would start her preparations for the day. She needed to keep busy.
“Pixel. I think the store is in good hands. We need to return to the cabin,” I said.
“Abigail,” Pixel said.
“Yes, Abigail needs us.” She had left the party early. I had a sudden premonition. It was calling me back to the cabin and to Abigail, who was alone with only Tracker the dog to guard her. We hurried out through the cat door into the alley. The others were asleep. Children of the street, cats and dogs. Pixel’s white chest glowed in the dark. His orange-and-white-striped tail wiggled back and forth as we trotted through the alleyways. We hurried past the park and into the Montford District with its eclectic mixture of Victorian, craftsman, and bungalows all built in the early days when Asheville was a seasonal resort. I stopped. “Moonlight.”
“What, Terra?”
“Montford. It smells like moonlight.”
“How smell?”
I thought about Lionel, a dear friend, a watcher, a victim of the darkness that had entered Asheville. This was our favorite neighborhood, and he was the one who had told me it smelled like moonlight. I didn’t quite understand until I smelled the same scent on Abigail. The smell of history, the smell of elegance, the smell of mystery. The sun rose over the mountain laurels, their twisted branches climbing to reach it and up Black Mountain. As we reached the cabin, Pixel yelled with glee. He could smell the bacon. He ran up the stairs before me and pushed open the door. Abigail stood over the potbellied stove with an iron skillet full of sizzling back bacon. Tracker was glued to her side, waiting for a slip of the hand.
Abigail sat down, sipping her coffee. “I woke up last night at three. Bryson was hovering over my bed, inches from my face. He was saying something, but I couldn’t understand. His mouth moved, but no words came out. The only word I heard was Charlotte. Then he was gone.”
I leaped onto the table and rubbed my neck against Abigail’s arm to calm her. I knew she needed me. “Bryson is your watcher. He watches out for you. Charlotte plays some role in our lives that I cannot see yet.”
“Terra, I wasn’t afraid. I liked Bryson when he was in this world. I’m beginning to understand that there are more worlds than just this one.” Abigail was becoming a witch, more powerful than her great-grandmother, my Elizabeth. There would be no limits to her abilities, but with that came responsibility and she still was just a girl. Pixel was onto his third piece of bacon before we realized what he was doing. Abigail lifted him off the table and put him on the floor next to Tracker, who let out a low growl. Pixel swatted Tracker’s nose before taking off.
“Terra, I wanted to show you something I found.” Abigail hurried into the bedroom and returned with a book. One I did not recall seeing before.
“Where did you find that?”
“I found it under the floorboards under my bed.”
“It was Agatha Hollows’s book,” I said.
She placed the book on the table. A green mist seeped out of its spine as it flipped open. What I recognized were spells spewed from its pages, the language undecipherable. The numbers and letters danced around our heads, trying to line up on a chalkboard.
“I can’t understand any of these spells. They’re in some language I’ve never seen before.” Abigail shook her head. She slammed the book closed.
“The book is enchanted, Abigail. You won’t be able to read it.” I had tried for years to read Agatha’s spell books, hoping to find the one spell that would bring me back to my true form. All my attempts had failed. Agatha was not from this world. “Only Agatha could read it.”
“Where is she now?”
“I lost her.” It was difficult to speak the words. Remembering the events in my dreams was difficult enough, but it was more difficult to speak about them in daylight.