Circle of Blood (4 page)

“What happened here?” she asked.

“She took it, the magic,” he whispered.

He was dying; she could feel it. She also knew there was nothing she could do for him even if she had wanted to.

“Who took it? How did she do it?” Desdemona asked.

“I don’t know how, but I saw her the other day, talking with some of the others, pretending to be one of us, but I knew she wasn’t. She was . . . evil.”

He shuddered as he tried to breathe.

“Then what happened?”

“She left, but I was afraid. I wanted to go home, but I couldn’t. I tried to warn the others that she was the one keeping us here. Some of us wanted to go, tried, but couldn’t.”

“And then?” she urged as he paused.

“She came for us. She did this.”

“Who is she? Do you know her name, what she looks like?”

“She had black hair, like the night, like death.”

The boy was almost gone and she didn’t have time to lose. She reached inside his mind, looking for an image of the woman he was referencing. Finally she saw a vague outline, a woman with long hair. She pushed harder, trying to make the face come clear.

A wave of energy slammed into her so hard that it knocked her off her feet and threw her twenty feet away. She hit the cement with a bone-crunching jolt and felt blood vessels bursting all throughout her body. A rib splintered and drove itself into her lung.

She lay still for a moment, unsure if the death rattle she heard was coming from her or the boy. She closed her eyes and focused on rapidly healing herself. She pulled in energy from the ground, the air, and the last gasp left to the boy.

She screamed in anguish as everything knit back together. When it was done she staggered to her feet and over to the boy’s body. Whoever the woman with the black hair was, she was powerful, so powerful that she had been able to leave booby traps for anyone trying to access an image of her in the minds of those who had seen her. It was a whole new level of magic, and Desdemona knew that she was going to have to find a way to make up for wasted years when she should have been learning to do so much more.

She straightened and headed as fast as she could toward the exit to the theme park. She didn’t look back. The entity in the parking lot had been right. There was only death here.

Almost an hour later she arrived back at the house where she had been staying. She staggered inside and made it to the bedroom, where Freaky was curled up, waiting for her. The black panther yawned and stretched and let her know in his own way that she had been gone far too long.

She scratched him absently behind the ears, and the panther purred and leaned into her hand, clearly enjoying the attention. His current incarnation was much more fearsome than his original. When she was little she had made the pure energy creature into the form of a tiny black kitten, her only friend. She wished that as a child she’d found a way to keep her mom from taking Freaky away from her when she found out about him.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The battle at the amusement park had left her shaken, uncertain, and she hated that feeling of powerlessness. It was her entire childhood in a single emotion.

Great supernatural powers, and still totally helpless
. It was a nightmare, the same one that had plagued so many of her tortured nights. She sat down on the bed and pulled her knees up under her chin.

She had thought with all of her coven dead, there’d be no one anymore who could terrorize her. She’d been wrong and the hatred she felt for the woman with the black hair just intensified as she turned to stare at the picture of the cross and the bloody words taunting her. She was sure it was that woman who had left the picture for her. Only someone with that kind of power could have played her as a pawn for months.

She was no one’s pawn. Now she knew, though, that she was vulnerable, and she had to do something about that, and fast.

It was strange; she was a woman grown but her clear memories ended when she was twelve. Growing up, being an adult, all of those things she only caught glimpses of, like shadows in the pieces of a broken mirror.

She was also beginning to understand that her inability to control her own emotions and her lack of exposure to logic were hindrances. She couldn’t afford them. She was like a child trapped in a woman’s body, and there was only one person who could help her.

The hated other self.

She could feel that one stirring inside her even now, trying to break free, trying to influence Desdemona. It wouldn’t work. She was the one in control now, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t use and manipulate the other one to help her find the witch she needed to kill.

Come to me.

Desdemona closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, and then exhaled. In her mind she was seated on the floor of the basement that had belonged to her high priestess. The place where the massacre had happened. It was a terrible place, even she couldn’t help feeling that, and given her memories of what had happened there, she wished she were somewhere else, anywhere else.

“But this is where it all happened,” a soft voice said.

Desdemona looked up and saw Samantha standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“I hate you,” Desdemona said, an intensity of raw, overwhelming emotion flooding her.

“I fear you,” Samantha replied simply, quietly. The apparition was wearing a white dress and was somewhat transparent but still recognizable for who she was and what she represented. She stepped forward and then slowly sat down on the floor across from Desdemona, mimicking her posture.

“Fear is for the weak.”

“It’s not weakness to feel fear, it’s weakness to let it keep you from acting,” Samantha countered.

“And what is hatred but ignorance?” Desdemona snarled.

“It is that, and also lack of mercy and forgiveness and compassion,” Samantha acknowledged.

Desdemona felt as though somehow she was losing, and that gave her a panicky feeling. How could this be? She was the strong one, the powerful one.

“What do you want from me?” Desdemona demanded, angry, resentful, and more than a little defensive. The other woman was so calm, maddeningly so. Desdemona remembered a period of time in her own life when she’d been that way. She’d learned to be still, almost dead inside, as a defense mechanism to avoid punishment, judgment from her mother and the others. She’d learned that in a roomful of passionate people, stillness could be the most intimidating thing in the world.

Then had come that terrible night and she had lost that stillness. Hate and anger had taken over and she had understood in a flash the kind of power they could give her. They had helped her overcome her own crippling fear when those around her were cowering on the floor sobbing. They had allowed her to do the most wondrous magic she’d ever dreamed of. They’d given her power.

And then, so soon after, she had lost herself forever to this specter who sat across from her. What was worse, this specter had the calm she had lost. Desdemona bared her teeth at her other self, hating her with all she had in her.

“I want to understand you, to not be afraid of you anymore,” Samantha said. “And I want to be able to forgive you, me, us.”

“I don’t need your forgiveness,” Desdemona hissed.

“Maybe you don’t need it, but I do,” Samantha said.

There was something so sincere about her that it made Desdemona stop and think. “You solve crimes for a living,” she said at last.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To help the world make sense, to bring closure to people who have had terrible experiences.”

“Like us.”

Samantha nodded.

Desdemona waved her hand and willed the picture of the stolen necklace into being. She showed it to Samantha. “Do you remember getting this picture, finding it buried in the grave meant for . . . us . . . in Salem?”

“It’s the last thing I remember clearly,” Samantha said.

Desdemona nodded. “I need to find the witch who left that picture.”

“Then you’re going to need me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“I thought you viewed fear as weakness,” Samantha said, raising an eyebrow.

Desdemona had never hated her so much as she did in that moment. She forced herself to take a deep breath. “I do. That’s why I need to get over it. At the abandoned amusement park today, a witch killed a lot of people with powers. She literally stripped them of their magic, pulled it out of them. It killed them. Worse, it accelerated the decomposition. It was only the magic she was pulling, not energy.”

Samantha pursed her lips. “That would imply that the life force, the very essence of a person with power, is tied to that power.”

“That’s what it seemed like.”

“So what she was really taking was a piece of their soul almost, and without it they could not survive.”

Desdemona blinked. “You think magic is tied to a person’s soul?”

Samantha shrugged. “It’s the only thing that explains what you witnessed.”

“I’m not sure if I believe in that.”

Samantha actually chuckled. “Given everything you’ve seen, that seems . . . ironic. Tell me what you can about the witch we’re hunting.”

“
I’m
hunting,” Desdemona corrected. “I suspect it was the same one as today. It takes a lot of power to pull off the things she’s been doing.”

“In San Francisco I saw her able to puppeteer other witches just like marionettes,” Samantha said. “She is indeed very strong and completely without conscience.”

“That’s how you think of me,” Desdemona realized.

Samantha nodded.

“Why?”

“What happened when we were twelve? What happened the day the demon killed the entire coven?” Samantha asked.

“You mean you don’t know?”

Samantha shook her head.

“Are you sure you don’t know what happened that day?” Desdemona pressed.

“I only get glimpses of it, images in my nightmares. I have no idea what really happened; why?”

Desdemona dropped her eyes to the floor beneath them. “Neither do I,” she whispered.

“What! How is that possible?” Samantha demanded, shaken out of her calm.

Desdemona lifted her head again. “I, too, only get glimpses, brief images that I can’t really put together.”

There was a long silence, which Samantha finally broke. “You mean neither of us truly knows what happened on the most pivotal day of our lives?”

“I guess not.”

It seemed incredible. Desdemona had always assumed that had been the day she’d lost control, really lost it, and Samantha had been born. Maybe that wasn’t true, though. It didn’t matter. She was the one in charge now.

Freaky growled nearby, snapping Desdemona back into the real world and out of her own mind. She glanced around, disoriented, trying to figure out what had set off the panther.

Then she could sense it, a disruption in the flow of energy around her that told her there was another nearby who had power.

She launched herself to a standing position and ran down the stairs. The sensation was fading. Whoever was nearby was leaving. She burst out the front door and looked around. At the rate the energy ripple was fading, the person was trying to get away quickly.

She could give chase, but why wear herself down like that? Besides, the person might be trying to lead her into a trap. She headed back inside and grabbed a bag of supplies she had acquired before arriving in the city. She removed a white candle, a yellow candle, and a red candle and placed them on the kitchen table, the yellow candle next to the white and the red a distance away.

“I am the white candle. I am fixed. I seek truth, movement. The red candle is the one with power, who was here, who is now running away. You will come to me.”

She waved her hands and all three candles lit, flames stretching for the sky. She snapped her fingers and the red candle began to slide across the table toward the white one. It was moving fast. The runner was not far away.

Desdemona turned and went back to the front door. Energy rippled in the air. She waited a moment and then opened the door to see a frightened and confused-looking child racing up the steps. She stood back and let the girl run inside.

Once she was in, her running ceased and over her shoulder Desdemona could see the three candles on the table go out. Spell accomplished.

“Who are you? How did you do that?” the girl, who looked about fourteen, demanded.

“I think you already know how, at least, in the most general sense,” Desdemona said. “As for the rest, I’ll be asking the questions. Who are you?”

“Nala,” the girl said sullenly, shoving her hands into the pockets of an overly large man’s trench coat. Underneath, her clothes were a bit ragged, but the coat was fairly new.

“Are you a witch, Nala?”

“No! I’m not, okay! I wish everyone would stop asking me if I’m a witch!”

“What are you, then?”

“I’m nothing, nobody, just a street kid.”

“With powers,” Desdemona noted.

Nala hunched her shoulders. “I don’t even really know how to use them. There’s some stuff, but it’s like it just sort of happens. Like an accident or something.”

“With powers like that, there’s no reason you have to live on the streets.”

“I told you, I don’t understand them. I don’t know how they work. The only thing I can do well is beg for food and sometimes money to buy food.”

“You could use those powers of persuasion to get bigger things.”

“Yeah, well, if it’s so easy, let’s see you do it,” Nala said.

“Do jumping jacks. Don’t stop until I tell you,” Desdemona said, letting her words, her intention wash over Nala.

The girl gasped and then began to do the jumping jacks.

“No fair!” Nala said.

“Life isn’t fair.”

“I want to stop.”

“Oh, I think you’ll keep going until I’m done with you. Tell me, Nala, where are you from?”

“Here.”

“A native. How refreshing. Where are your parents?”

“Dead. They were killed in Katrina, okay?”

“And I’m guessing no other family, hence the reason you’re on the street,” Desdemona mused. “Which one of your parents had powers?”

“I don’t know. Neither. They never talked about it if they did.”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed a lot of people with power have been arriving in the city recently.”

“Of course I have,” Nala said, starting to pant a little. “Can I stop?”

“Not yet. Be grateful. I could always make you do them faster,” Desdemona said.

“You’re a terrible person!”

“Back to the matter at hand. Why were you here?”

“I was looking for you, but then when I got close . . . I got scared. Something is wrong with you. I could feel it.”

Desdemona’s temper flared. “There’s nothing wrong with me!” she hissed. “Why were you looking for me?”

“I thought you might be able to tell me . . . ,” Nala started, then took a few gasping breaths as she continued her jumping jacks. “What happened to my friends.”

“What friends?”

“At the theme park.”

“Stop.”

Nala collapsed on the floor, groaning and clutching her side.

“You had friends at the theme park?”

“Yeah, some people in the same boat as me. Some of us had been living there awhile. I went out to get food. I’m the best at it. When I got back there—”

Nala bit her lip and turned away, but not before Desdemona saw the tears forming in the girl’s eyes. “Something killed them all.”

“And what makes you think I can tell you anything about that?” she asked.

“The taximan said so.”

Desdemona yanked Nala to her feet and stared into her eyes. “The taximan?”

“Yeah, big dude with dreadlocks, weird, low voice. He said you would know what happened. He said if I found you that you could tell me the truth. He also said I might not want to find you. Boy, was he right!”

Desdemona dropped Nala back onto the floor. “And he told you how to find me?”

“Yes, described the house real good, even gave me a ride and dropped me off a few blocks away.”

“And just how did he know that?” Desdemona mused. She’d gotten into his taxi downtown and had never told him her name or where she was living. He couldn’t have followed her home; she would have sensed something.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. I didn’t ask. He didn’t say. Please, can you tell me what happened at that place, though?”

“Were there any of the others missing, out hunting for food, perhaps?”

“No, just me.”

The tears were flowing freely down the girl’s cheeks now.

“A witch ripped their power from them. When she did, it killed them.”

The girl sobbed. “Why? Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Desdemona asked, blinking down at her. “To get more power.”

“I hate the power! I hate what it does to people!” Nala shouted.

“Only some,” Desdemona mused.

“You’re a witch.”

“Yes.”

“Are you the one who killed them?”

“No, but I’ve been hunting for the one who did. Maybe you’ve seen her somewhere around town? Long black hair. One of the younger boys at the theme park told me before he died that she’d come around before. He said her hair was black as the night.”

Nala shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen her. But I’m gone a lot during the day, so if she came then . . .”

“So now I have two mysteries to solve. The identity of this woman and just how it was that the taximan knew where to find me.”

“Don’t hurt him. He seemed creepy, but I think he’s basically an okay guy. He didn’t charge me anything for giving me a ride way out here.”

Desdemona looked at the girl. A street kid like her, native to the city, would make an excellent spy. “It’s very important that I find the witch who killed your friends,” she said.

“Did she kill your friends, too?” Nala asked.

“In a manner of speaking. I know that she’s here, but I have been unable to locate her.”

“So you want my help finding her?”

“Yes. I’d be willing to pay you for it.”

Nala shook her head. “I just want to make sure she gets what’s coming to her. She killed my friends. A bunch of homeless people—cops won’t try too hard to solve that one.”

“I can guarantee you that when I find her, she will get everything that’s coming to her,” Desdemona said through gritted teeth.

“Count me in.” Nala wiped a hand across her nose. “Since we’re going to be working together, could I . . . um . . . use your bathroom?”

“Down the hall to the right.”

The girl took off and Desdemona went into the kitchen. She removed the red candle in her bag and substituted it for an orange one to symbolize the taxi driver.

“I am fixed. The driver is not. He must come to me.” She waved her hand, and the candles lit up. She snapped her fingers.

Nothing happened.

A moment later the flames snuffed themselves out and she cursed under her breath. There was some form of magic protecting the driver, even though he had no power of his own. Since she couldn’t compel him to come to her, she would have to go to him.

A couple of minutes later Nala was back and her face and hands were scrubbed clean. The girl was rail thin, her cheeks pinched.

“Did the driver give you anything of his, a card by any chance?” Desdemona asked.

The girl nodded, reached into her pocket, and pulled it out. She handed it to Desdemona, who read it over.