Mark of the Witch. Maggie Shayne
“Lapsed?”
I shrugged. “It’s all just superstition. So’s your path, by the way. I’m an equal opportunity atheist.”
“Wouldn’t know it by your jewelry.”
My hand flew to the pentacle hanging against my sweater, between my breasts. “It’s a pretty piece. Nothing more.”
“I see.”
“In addition to knowing about Samhain, I also know that, as a rule, Catholic priests do not follow witches, lapsed or otherwise, around New York City on the day after Halloween. So would you mind telling me just what it is you want from me?”
His smile faltered, and he lowered his head. “I’m not a Catholic priest.”
Note to self—he didn’t open with “I’m not following you.”
“Anglican?” I chanced.
“Gnostic.”
My brows went up.
“A very-little-known Gnostic sect, actually, known as the Keepers of the Pact.”
“Vroom, vroom.” I made a twisting motion with my hands, and then, when he didn’t smile, sang a few notes. Nothing. He was just staring at me, those dark brown eyes trying to swallow my soul.
And my soul was wanting to be swallowed. Utterly wanting it.
“So you need an arrangement—”
“I don’t need an arrangement, Indy. I need you.”
I closed my eyes tight, sighed hard. “I was afraid you were going to say something like that.” So, he was some kind of stalker, then. I took the last puff of my smoke, looked sadly at the butt, wondering how it had gone so fast, and dropped it down a sewer grate. “Look, I don’t know what you’re up to here, but—”
“I’ll tell you, if you’ll let me. Will you give me five—maybe ten—minutes? Will you do that for me?”
“Do I really need the whole spiel, Father? Can’t you just hit the highlights? Nutshell it for me?”
“All right.” He took my arm and led me off the sidewalk toward a café where they still had a few tables set up outside. It was only another block to Pink Petals. I could see the sign from here. We sat down as if we planned to order breakfast. And then he looked me straight in the eyes. “This is going to sound—well, insane. I didn’t believe it at first. But I’m changing my mind.” He took a breath, lifted his chin, held my eyes and sort of rushed ahead. “There is a demon who is going to try to come through a portal into our world on Samhain Eve. If he succeeds, he could very well bring about the end of mankind. You are destined to help me stop him.”
I tightened my lips, inhaled, nodded slowly, surreptitiously looking around us to see if I could spot a cop. Just my luck, not a single one in sight. “Hoookay. Um, I am pretty sure you have the wrong girl, Father Tomas.” (Emphasis on the Mahs.) I got to my feet, inching sideways, clear of the table.
“The woman I’m looking for has lived many lifetimes, Indy, including one in ancient Babylon in which she and her two sisters were executed for the practice of witchcraft.”
His words slammed into me like a baseball bat in the hands of Derek Jeter. I stopped moving and tried very hard not to look the least bit intrigued, not to meet his eyes as I asked, “Executed … how?” Despite my best efforts, my voice came out hoarse and wobbly.
“Pushed from a cliff.”
I felt it again, those hands at my back, warm, the touch filling me with utter pleasure and horrible grief all at the same time. I felt the moment when my feet left the solid earth, and the sickening way my stomach seemed to float upward as my body fell. I heard the wind whipping past my ears, tugging my hair.
I sank into the chair again, shook the vision away before I had to relive that horrible impact, and kept my eyes lowered. “I think you’re probably a little bit disturbed, and maybe not even a real priest.” My voice was very low, very soft, the words delivered in a slow, deliberate monotone. “I’m going to go now, and if you follow me, I’m afraid I’ll have to call the police.”
He sighed, lowering his head. “Call them with what, Indy?”
Frowning, I started to reach for my BlackBerry in its handy pocket on the side of my French vanilla suede Louis Vuitton bag, but it wasn’t there. I must have lost it … probably in the subway last night.
When I looked up he held it in his hands.
“Where did you get my phone?”
Touching the screen a few times, he laid the phone faceup on the table and slid it across to me.
“How did you …”
“Look,” he said.
I frowned down at my phone at the familiar black box of an online video just as it began to play. It took a few seconds for me to realize that I was the star of the piece.
I snatched up the phone and stared in disbelief as I, Indira Simon, wearing the very same clothes I’d had on for the ritual last night, flung my hands out toward a knife-wielding gangbanger and without so much as touching him, sent him flying so hard his pants fell the rest of the way down before his butt hit the concrete. Then I spun around, flinging my hands toward another, and his head bounced back as if I’d delivered an uppercut to the jaw. Only, like before, I’d never touched him.
The way I was moving was like tai chi on fast-forward. Graceful, rapid, powerful. I yelled something at them, but in some strange language that sounded made up. The old man ran away, looking back over his shoulder at me like I’d sprouted horns or something. And then I got nailed from behind and went down hard. But I sprang up again, did a flip—a fucking flip—that seemed to defy gravity and every other law of physics and whipped my hands once more, shouting more words in that same foreign language. I missed that time, nailing a big metal wastebasket and sending it flying like a missile. It came apart when it hit the wall, clanging and banging to the floor. And then the punks closed in on me all at once, kicking the shit out of me for a minute, before someone off camera—probably the person holding it—shouted, “Hey, get the hell away from her. I’m calling the cops!”
The voice was female. And familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it.
The punks ran for it. Well, two of them did. The third was basically being dragged between them. And then the camera came closer, as if the person carrying it were bending over me. “Are you okay?” a male voice asked.
I heard the woman ordering this guy away, too. Demanding to know if he’d actually been filming an assault instead of helping. I couldn’t see her coming closer, as the camera was still on me as I stared up at it. Close up, my eyes were black—jet-black—except my eyes are blue—and then I said, “Milik ša zanunzê ihakkim mannu?”
The camera backed away and the video abruptly ended.
I blinked, staring at my BlackBerry, swearing under my breath as I dragged my finger along the bar at the bottom, managing to rewind the video just a little. Then I hit Play and stared again at the close-up of my face.
Yes, my eyes were black. Irises, pupils, everything. Just two black marbles. Dead-looking eyes.
The woman in the video, a woman I still couldn’t think of as me, uttered her strange words again, and I whispered along with them, “Who can know the minds of the Underworld Gods?”
“What’s that, Indy?”
I’d forgotten the priest was still sitting there and looked up at him quickly. “It wasn’t me.” I barked the words so fast, I didn’t take time to think about them first. But once they were out, I knew it was the only possible argument I could make. I turned the phone toward the priest. “Look at the eyes. Those aren’t my eyes. This is just some chick who looks like me. My eyes are blue. Not black. All right?”