Bloodline

Bloodline

Witch Cat Mystery Book One

Vicki Vass

Bloodline: Witch Cat Mystery Book One

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents and dialog are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or if real, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 Vicki Vass

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For more information, to inquire bout rights to this or other works, or to purchase copies for special educational, business, or sales promotional uses please write to:

Tedeschi Publishing

294 S. Cedar Avenue

Wood Dale, Il 60191

Vickivass.com

Published in Print and Digital formats in the United States of America.

ISBN-13: 978-0692873311

DEDICATION

To Terra and Pixel

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Karen Owen for the inspiration. Thanks to Corinna Petry for her keen journalistic eye. And thanks to Michael Landon for his beautiful cover illustration.

Salem 1692

“Run, Terra,” Elizabeth’s screams reached me from within the barn. I could see the lanterns flickering like fireflies through the woods. “Run, run, Terra, now,” Her frantic voice followed me as I darted through the thicket. Brambles cut through me, slashing at me as I pushed my way down the hill toward the stream. I could hear the hounds barking in the distance followed by the sounds of women screaming. The sweet goldenrod snapped beneath my feet, releasing the smell of licorice. Goldenrod, I thought, goldenrod ground with lavender brings on sleep. One of many concoctions Elizabeth had taught me. I hoped Elizabeth and the others had made it away.

My focus returned to my peril. I needed to keep moving. Holding up my skirt, I trampled through the tall grass and into the creek. The dogs wouldn’t be able to track me through the water. Another trick Elizabeth had taught me. I pushed my way downstream past the hollow avoiding the light coming from Master Johnson’s farm. I followed the stream until I reached the sea, stumbling, falling onto the large rocks that jutted out like razors along the water’s edge. The full moon gave me away, sparkling brightly onto the sea, lighting up the beach. I could hear them coming, the dogs barking, the loud angry voices. I stumbled, panting, I was so weary. How long had I been running? It seemed like forever. I followed the shoreline until I reached a cove. My feet ached within my soaked boots, cut and bleeding from the rocks and thistles. I crept into a small cave and tucked deep into its corner. Covering my mouth with both hands, I tried to settle myself, but my heart pounded loudly. Surely it would give me away.

What had I done to cause such fury? I was only 17 years old; some would say yet a child. A child, whose childhood was bled from her, taken by a thief. That thief told the secret. Life as I knew it would now change forever.

The Atlantic waters slashed clean and cool against the dark walls, the acid smell of salt assaulting my nostrils. I stared out into the abyss. I could see nothing but the eternity that lay beyond the waters. What had they done with Elizabeth? Her screams continued to haunt me, long after I could hear them. What would they do with me if I were found? I could hear voices in the distance, some real and some in my head. As of late, I had difficulty distinguishing betwixt the two.

I shivered from the cold. What of the others? What of Prudence, Sarah, Constance? Children of the coven, not much older than I. Had they been taken? Elizabeth would give her life to save ours. Was it their screams echoing in the distance? I had no means to save them. I reached into my pocket and clenched the small vial she had given me. A chance for a new life, a chance to save myself.

The voices grew nearer. I could hear their angry words; I could see the pitchforks through the flames, the bared teeth of the hounds, they were almost upon me. I drank the potion.

The Leaf & Page

I stood on the stoop of the Leaf & Page, trying to ward off the early morning chill. The crisp mountain air drifted down like a cloud over Asheville. Fall had rolled in seemingly overnight, bringing with it cool, damp mornings. I waited, shivering slightly. “Come on in, dear.” Mrs. Twiggs opened the back door to her tiny shop located in Biltmore Village, once home to the craftsmen and employees of the Biltmore Estate, the largest mansion in North America.

As she stepped over the threshold, the 125-year-old oak floors creaked under her plump feet. I followed her in through the kitchen and then into the store winding my way along the display cases of crystals while she lit the incense burners scattered throughout the front room. Mrs. Twiggs was as dependable as a well-wound clock. She arrived precisely at 5 a.m. every morning to bake her scones and muffins before opening her shop of exotic teas and vintage books. She often said, “They’re not going to bake themselves now, are they?” She always made enough to share with the others and myself. Myself always mindful to place first in line. “Oh, dear, you do look hungry, we’ll fix that right away,” she said, gazing at me, her hands on her wide hips.

“Thank you, Mrs. Twiggs,” I said. She had told me to call her Beatrice but it never felt right to me, not proper. Mrs. Twiggs, that’s what I call her.

She scurried back into the small galley kitchen. I sat by the magnifying lamp that she used to examine her many crystals. Its warmth comforted me. From the kitchen, I could smell bacon frying. “Almost ready, dear,” Mrs. Twiggs called out to me. A few minutes later, she came out of the kitchen holding a Fiestaware plate bearing a slice of bacon and a blueberry scone. “Here you go, dear.” She placed the plate in front of me. “Eat slowly, you don’t want to upset your stomach.”

Glancing up from the plate, I smiled and gave her a wink. I could hear the others shuffling in from the alleyway though the back door. Mrs. Twiggs greeted each one by name. I ate in silence, guarding my place carefully. As we ate, Mrs. Twiggs unpacked boxes of new arrivals, dusty books she had bought at an estate sale in Biltmore Forest, the small exclusive community that surrounded Biltmore Estate. I accompanied her the day of the sale to make sure all the prices were fair. She has a kind heart, which some people use to their advantage. She held up each book like it was a revered first edition carefully placing it in just the right spot on the sloping shelves. Like Mrs. Twiggs the shop was in need of repair. Its floor slanted following the grade of the old cobblestone streets. The plaster walls peeled in parts and the floor was scratched from years of wear.

After finishing my meal, I watched Mrs. Twiggs prepare the store for opening. She dusted the rows of wooden bookshelves located in the front room, the middle room was devoted to crystals and healing stones and the back room held her selection of loose teas and herbal remedies. In the former dining room were several small café tables decorated with fresh-cut flowers from her garden. Upstairs two tiny bedrooms, one filled with boxes, the other a double bed now serving as a single. A cozy cottage plucked from a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel, its keeper, just as quaint and proper. Mrs. Twiggs embodied all that is good about Asheville, kindness, sincerity and grace. She turned the large kettle onto boil and began mixing her morning tea of the day. Each day featured a special brew, all secret recipes known only to her.

“Oh, dear, look at the time,” Mrs. Twiggs said, gazing at the antique cuckoo clock, which hung over the cash register next to the photograph of her late husband, Albert. She paused briefly, staring at Albert. “Good morning dear,” she said, as though waiting for him to respond. Albert Twiggs never answered her. In the ten years that I had watched her morning ritual, he never uttered a word, not that I expected a photograph to do so, but it would have been nice to hear his voice. She waddled to the front door and flipped over the open sign. All the others had left; it was up to myself and Mrs. Twiggs to greet the first customers. She greeted each with a hug and a smile. Mrs. Twiggs’ warmth and generosity endeared her to the community. The Asheville folk had accepted her as their own, not their usual policy for anyone not born here. Most Asheville-born families could recall several generations; many as far back as pre-Revolution. Mrs. Twiggs doled out scones, morning tea and lively conversation about her favorite subject, books. Before coming to Asheville, she had been a librarian at the College of William & Mary, a place dear to my heart. I had told Mrs. Twiggs my plans of attending W & M at one time but that time had passed. When her nose was not in a teacup, it was in a book. She could speak on any subject, from ancient history to Zen Buddhism. Of all the topics that interested her, Appalachian folklore was her favorite, that's what led her to the ladies of the Biltmore Society and their monthly book club, which she hosted at the Leaf & Page. The Biltmore Society was steeped in tradition and secrecy. Its origins dated back to 1895 when the Biltmore Estate was completed. Mrs. Twiggs never mentioned what occurred during the society’s gatherings; I thought it to be rude to ask since I am not a member, so I never did.

The silver bell over the transom tinkled, breaking my thoughts. A woman I know as Mrs. Tangledwood came in, wielding her crooked walking stick along the crooked floor. She was dressed in a sensible coat not indicative of a lady of her stature. She was wont to save a penny where a penny could be saved. A longtime denizen of Asheville society and the leader of the Biltmore Society Ladies, Mrs. Tangledwood had been coming to the store as long as I have.

Mrs. Twiggs greeted her, easing her into the leather wingback chair nestled by the fireplace. “Emma, how are you feeling today, dear?” Mrs. Twiggs spoke to the elderly woman with a concerned air.

“Beatrice, my arthritis is acting up something fierce. I can feel winter coming in my bones.” She clenched her gnarled fingers as she peeled off her quilted coat.

Mrs. Twiggs quickly gathered some kindling and started a fire, then said, “Let me get you a cup of tea.” She bustled off and returned from the kitchen, carrying a tea service. She placed it on the small table. Placing several leaves in a strainer, she then poured boiling water over them, releasing an aroma I recognized.

“What is this, Beatrice?” Mrs. Tangledwood sniffed the tea.

“Emma, it’s green tea with a bit of ginger, a touch of rosehips and willow bark. And something a little extra to take those aches and pains away, nettle leaves.”

“What’s nettle?”

I had used the plant myself for similar ailments. Mrs. Twiggs pulled up another chair and sat next to Mrs. Tangledwood. “It’s a plant that has tiny stiff hairs which release stinging chemicals when touched, those chemicals numb aches and pains. The Appalachian mountain folk used it to reduce inflammation.”

Mrs. Tangledwood stared at the concoction and then back up at Mrs. Twiggs.

“Oh, Emma, it’s quite safe.”

Mrs. Tangledwood sipped the tea. I could see her whole body ease, not from the tea but from the assurance in Mrs. Twiggs’ voice. She had that effect on people. Her sparkling hazelnut eyes, her hair raven black without a trace of silver and her tender smile. For a woman of almost 80 years on this planet, her skin was remarkably wrinkle free and luminescent. She told me once that clean living and a purposeful life kept the gravedigger hungry. That must be true, for Mrs. Twiggs’ purpose kept her young. “One more thing, Emma.” Mrs. Twiggs reached into her daisy festooned apron pocket, retrieving a small crystal dangling from a piece of leather. “This is blue lace agate. It removes blocks from the nervous system and treats arthritic bones. I want you to wear it while you take a warm bath tonight for 15 to 20 minutes.” She placed the necklace gently over Mrs. Tangledwood’s head.

Mrs. Tangledwood touched the stone and smiled. She opened her change purse but Mrs. Twiggs waved her off. “No, Emma, I want you to have this. You come back tomorrow and let me know how much better you feel.”

“I appreciate it, Beatrice, you’re quite kind but I’m afraid that the report from my doctor’s visit was not good. Even all your wonderful teas and stones can’t cure what ails me. I’m afraid it’s just a matter of time,” Mrs. Tangledwood said, placing the teacup down.

Mrs. Twiggs’ smile disappeared. She took Mrs. Tangledwood’s hand in hers. “There’s always hope, Emma. I will help you anyway I can.”

Mrs. Tangledwood smiled. “On to more cheerful business--the annual pumpkin festival at the Biltmore. I’ve spoken to several of the ladies, and we agree this year we should have a haunted hayride through the forest.”

“Would you like me to speak with the curator at the Biltmore to arrange it?”

“That’s not necessary,” Mrs. Tangledwood said. “I’ve already spoken with her. They’ve agreed to allow us to use the woods for the event provided we donate the proceeds to their scholarship fund.”

“Let me know if you need any help,” Mrs. Twiggs said as Mrs. Tangledwood stood and buttoned her coat. “Emma, wait, it arrived. Let me get that book for you.”

Mrs. Tangledwood sat back down in the chair with a groan. Mrs. Twiggs returned with a bundle and placed it on the table. “Emma, I’m afraid this one was very expensive. More than the others. It’s quite old.”

“Oh, Beatrice, how were you able to find it?”

“A colleague from the university back east.”

“Thank you, Beatrice.” Placing the bundle in her shopping bag, Mrs. Tangledwood stood again. I watched Mrs. Tangledwood shuffle out the door with a newfound energy. Mrs. Twiggs closed the door gently behind her. Throughout the day, her patrons came and went, browsing through books, sifting through teas and sharing stories with Mrs. Twiggs. From my vantage point on the window seat, the afternoon sun filtered in through the beveled glass picture window engulfing me in a prism of light. The sweet smell of afternoon raspberry zinger tea wafted in from the kitchen filling the store with a sense of serenity. It would soon be overpowered by the scent of the expensive perfume worn by the ladies of the Biltmore Society as they pushed their way through the door. The shop would become a cacophony as the Asheville aristocracy pecked away the hours discussing matters of great importance. That would be my cue to part ways for the day for I am not privy to the hen party. The company I keep is looked down upon by the ladies with turned-up noses, but not Mrs. Twiggs. She sees me for who I am and not what I appear to be.

I thanked Mrs. Twiggs and headed out the back door, making sure not to be seen. There was a chill in the air as dusk settled in. The days and my time grew shorter as winter approached. I needed to make arrangements for a warm bed for the night.

I made my way down Biltmore Avenue, heading uphill toward the downtown square. Outside the shops, the buskers played for the tourists. The locals sat at the outdoor taverns tied to their beloved dogs. Ashevillians love their dogs. I do not share their sentiment. They are dirty beasts with limited intelligence.

The Blue Ridge Mountains rose up in the distance surrounding the town forming a fortress, silent, watching, waiting. I missed home, my real home, and a true New England winter. The Northeastern cold penetrates deep under your skin nipping at all your senses. Large flakes of snow drift up to the window sash. Feather beds and warm fires call. Here snow is a fleeting promise, never staying more than a day and leaving no memory of its coming. I missed the taste of salt in the air and the sound of the Atlantic dancing with the moon tides. But of all things missed, I miss my family most.

I continued walking unnoticed through the crowds, listening to their chatter about their lives. Like many of my homeless kin, I am transparent, without substance. People see through me. Some turn their heads, not wanting to acknowledge I exist, others step out of my way. Yet there are those good-hearted folks like Mrs. Twiggs, more than not. Folks who offer tender mercies. They share their supper or a warm smile.

I arrived at my favorite haunt, the Fillmore Hotel, one of the last remnants of the Golden Age of Asheville located on the fringe of town. Scaffolds surrounded its exterior, masons working late into early evening. I love to watch the elegantly dressed people come and go. The women in their beautiful gowns, the men dressed in their finest suits, speaking of pleasantries and fine things. It had been longer than I remembered since I wore such fine clothing. The concierge, Wesley, greeted me. His slender frame adorned with navy blue vestments, brass epaulets and buttons polished to perfection, his gray hair neatly cropped and brushed back with pomade. Unlike his gray hair, his pencil thin moustache is kept black as night from the occasional dye, the only vanity he allows himself. He stands straight as a board as guests come and go. The sign of a proper concierge to be always ready, blending into the background never to be seen. With age comes tenure, allowing him certain privileges such as letting me in after hours to sit in the beautiful marble lobby to warm myself by the fire on cold nights. More of a reason to call Asheville home, people like Wesley who are always so kind and helpful. Even the well-heeled patrons of the hotel treat me kindly. Homeless? I’m not homeless. How can you be homeless when a town embraces you?

“There you are, Miss,” Wesley greeted me. “I was hoping you’d stop by tonight. I’ll fetch you a bit of dinner.”

“Thank you, Wesley, it is good to see you,” I replied.

“You’ll have to eat it around back. Too many guests, and they’re already bothered by the construction. I hope you understand. I’ll meet you in a few minutes,” he said, nodding to a couple as they passed through the grand entrance.

It was nearly 6 p.m. and I had not eaten since this morning at Mrs. Twiggs. Sometimes I forget to eat. Other times a meal is hard to come by. I tapped on the servants’ entrance. The solid wood door contrasted with its rough limestone exterior. The same masons who had transported the stones for the Biltmore Estate built this hotel. Wesley opened the door, holding an empty plate. “Miss, I regret I could not scrounge a single morsel for you.” Wesley stared at the plate, bewildered and apologetic.

“Wesley, no bother. I could not eat a thing, stuffed I am. I dropped by on my way. It’s just nice to see you.” I glanced up to watch the sun setting over the distant mountains. I had to make it to the park before dark otherwise he’d be gone and I’d have no place to sleep. I hugged Wesley and then turned out of the alleyway down the main street past the brewpubs coming to life and the strains of music spilling out onto the street. Small boutiques, artisan shops and record stores flipped their signs to closed. Streetlights flickered on, giving a yellow glow to the darkening street. A line grew down the sidewalk for the Orange Peel as hipsters adorned with man buns and porkpie hats appeared like apparitions coming out of gangways and doorsteps. I hurried past them. Their conversations held little interest to me.

I hurried along the crooked streets into the Montford neighborhood. Of all the nooks and crannies of Asheville, this neighborhood was my favorite. The air was thick with the smell of moss and memories. A canopy of old-growth oaks wrapped their branches over the street. The houses teetered at the top of the hills, barely visible from the sidewalk hidden by lush green shrubs. Wraparound porches under high-pitched roofs and above heavy stone foundations held the weight of the hundred-year-old bungalows, Victorians and Craftsmen homes. Like many of the older sections in Asheville, this neighborhood was the vision of the architect Richard Sharp Smith; the supervising architect of the Biltmore Estate. It’s not possible to live in Asheville and not feel the presence of the Vanderbilts. I’ve heard all the stories, some true, some less than true.

Avoiding the man walking his pitbull, I entered the park. I meandered to where Lionel sat with his companions, playing chess. His grizzled white hair and beard lit up the dark skin of his face. He had told me how as a young man how he walked for civil rights with the king. Now he walked with a cane. Old age hunts us all.

Lionel’s companions were all about his age, 70 years young, he liked to say. They spent their days here challenging each other to chess and retelling stories of their youth. Each one topping the other. I listened until the sun was completely extinguished. Lionel pulled his torn and weathered overcoat close under his chin. “Ok, young miss, I think we better find a warm spot for the night. What do you think?”

“It’s going to be a cold one, Lionel,” I said with a little shiver.

I felt a kinship with Lionel. A kinship that living on the streets entitled me to. We walked past the boarded-up buildings, their broken windows stared like empty eye sockets. This part of town was not yet scheduled for regentrification. The bushes rustled with the night creatures scavenging for food. Lionel kept walking seeming not to care, he knew these neighborhoods better than anyone. The streetlights and glowing neon from the bars lit our path. The sound of live bluegrass coming from one of the taverns followed us as we walked. I enjoyed country music, the twang of the fiddle, and the yodel in the voice. Lionel joked that the music in Asheville was not real country music. Real country music, according to him, came from the Deep South and wasn’t called country. It was called blues, Delta blues.

Apart from chess, Lionel’s other love was his guitar. Besides the coat on his back, his guitar was his only other possession. “I think this will be fine, first in line for Mrs. Twiggs,” he said as he stopped in the alley behind the Leaf & Page. This side of the street was quiet but I could still make out some chatter from the local wine bar across the street. I gave a shudder.

Lionel found us a warm spot between two dumpsters. Earlier in the day he had laid aside some comfortable cardboard and had rummaged for some blankets, well moving blankets actually. Probably left over from one of the out-of-towners moving to Asheville. They had been flocking to the mountains over the past several years, and an Asheville native was becoming an endangered species. I lay down against the wall, nestling through the blankets while Lionel pulled his guitar out of its gig bag. It was worn and weathered but came to life with the magic in Lionel’s fingertips. “Young miss, this song is about a crossroads. Do you know what a crossroads is? That’s a turning point in your life. Asheville is my crossroads, little miss.” Lionel played his song for me, the same song I’d heard maybe a couple hundred times since the day I met Lionel. It always sounded slightly different depending on how he felt. Maybe it was the cold of the approaching winter but tonight the song held a sadness to it that I had never heard before. An aching in Lionel’s heart came through his fingers and out the guitar. I yawned. “I’m not keeping you up, am I, Young Miss?”

I shook my head no, too tired to answer and then sleep found me.

The Alley

I woke up as the sun rose over the bluish smoke-filled mountains. I stretched and yawned. I glanced around for Lionel but didn’t see him. Red and blue flashing police lights competed with the piercing sunlight for my attention. I went over to see what was going on. Two officers were questioning a young girl. I stayed in the shadows, eavesdropping. “I need to see your identification, your insurance,” the older officer said to her.

“I don’t have insurance,” the girl said shifting from foot to foot. Her jeans were worn and full of holes, her T-shirt slouched over her shoulder, her long blonde hair was tinged with pink. A tattoo covered her upper arm.

“What’s your name?”

“Abigail.”

“Abigail what?”

“Abigail Pierce.” She opened the door of her rusty old car. The back seat appeared to be filled. I crept closer to get a better look and saw a sleeping bag, garbage bags filled with clothes and other belongings.

“You were sleeping in the vehicle last night?” the officer asked.

“Yes, sir, I just got into town and didn’t have a place to stay.”

The officer peeked inside the car and saw what I had seen. “You were here about 3 a.m.? In the alley?” he asked.

“I was out in front of the Wicked Weed performing until about 2 a.m.,” she said. That’s when I noticed the guitar case on the passenger seat. “And then I came to my car and fell asleep here.”

“You didn’t see or hear anything?”

“I was out. I drove 10 hours straight to get here.” She handed the officer her driver’s license.

“You’re from Chicago?” he asked, glancing at it.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know you can’t sleep in your car overnight. It’s a violation of city ordinance.”

“Yes, sir, I understand I’ll find a hotel today.”

“We’re going to need you to check in at the station when you find a place. We might have more questions,” the officer said, handing her back her license.

“I told you I didn’t see anything. Can I ask what this is about?”

The second officer spoke up, “A man was murdered in the alley last night.”

“Lionel? Lionel?” I asked out loud. My heart skipped a beat. The officers turned to look at me. I ran down the alley and disappeared into the early morning crowd.

I wandered the streets looking for Lionel until I found myself back at Mrs. Twiggs’ shop. I didn’t know where else to go. She knew Lionel. Maybe she knew where he was.

I knocked on the alley door. I knocked for a long while. Mrs. Twiggs opened the door crying into her apron. She hugged me. “Lionel’s dead. They killed him. Poor Lionel.” I hugged her back.

“I am so sorry,” I said, not having a comforting word to share.

Lionel had no enemies, just the opposite. Everyone who lived on the streets of Asheville loved Lionel. Listened to his stories, listened to his music. I looked over Mrs. Twiggs’ shoulder and saw that girl the police had been talking to. She was sitting at the corner table, the one Mrs. Twiggs reserved for her favorite customers. Next to her were her guitar and her backpack, her most prized possessions I imagined. How was she involved with Lionel? What did she know? What did she see? Who was she? Something about her that bothered me, something more than the fact the police questioned her about Lionel. I kept my distance and listened carefully while Mrs. Twiggs brought over a cup of tea and sat across from her. “Thank you,” the Abigail girl said.

“Everyone calls me Mrs. Twiggs.”

“Mrs. Twiggs, I don’t have any money to pay for this.” The girl wrapped her hands around the warm teacup, cradling it.

“Don’t worry about that.” Mrs. Twiggs waved her off. “Do you have a place to stay? It’s not safe to sleep on the street at night.”

“I have my car. I’m saving enough money to rent a room. I’ve been playing to earn money,” the girl said.

“You can play out in front of my store. I’d welcome that. Bring in more customers.”

“You haven’t heard me play yet.”

Mrs. Twiggs smiled, glancing around the small shop. It was empty at this time of day. Only myself and one other customer browsing through the books. “Why don’t we have a listen then?”

The Abigail girl pulled out her beat-up Gibson and played a song, the melody of which haunts me to this day. It was the same melody I heard as a young girl growing up in Salem. The words were different but the music was eternal. I felt a dull ache in my head and what I imagined was vertigo. The room began to spin. There were voices all around me. It was dark, young girls squealed with joy. “Constance, it’s your turn,” the giggling voice said.

“Sarah, help me.”

“All join hands.” Elizabeth said. We stood in a circle, clasping our hands together. Elizabeth stood in the center of the circle, her white flowing robe incandescent in the full moonlight, her pure white hair shone silver. Her green eyes cut through the darkness, her aura embraced us. I took a step back, releasing my hold on Sarah. “Terra, stop your silliness, join hands with the rest of us,” Elizabeth ordered.

“Yes, Elizabeth,” I replied, taking Sarah’s hand again.

“Who will recite the seven incantations of the witch’s oath? Constance,” Elizabeth urged.

“I told you, Constance, it’s your turn,” Sarah said.

Constance closed her eyes, took a deep breath and then recited from memory. “Only for good shall we use our powers, kept secret in shadows and midnight hours. Sisterhood joined never bond to break. Our bond is eternal, eternal our fate. We vow to hold sacred both nature and man and swear by the circle that we join with our hands. Protect all from evil for all earthly time. Stay true to our coven and preserve our bloodline.”

“Very good, Constance,” Elizabeth said. “Do you know what those words mean?” Elizabeth was our mentor. She was two years our elder, a young woman of 19 yet her powers were without equal. Her Oakhaven bloodline ran deep to the days of the Druids and beyond to the earth walkers before the humans appeared. “We have been gifted great powers. What we do with those powers decides who and what we are. There are some who would call what we practice the dark arts, but this is false. We are stewards of the humans, caretakers, who choose to do good with our abilities. As is true for all gifts of nature, those abilities come with a price. Each time you use your gift a small part of you is drained. Spent is your vessel of white magic until you learn your true purpose. Until that purpose is known, you must spend your magic wisely.” She paused. Her golden amulet flashed in the moonlight as she continued speaking, “There are many spells and incantations that I will teach you. I will show you the power of the herbs of the forest that will heal the mind and body.” Elizabeth raised her arms as storm clouds rolled over the moon choking out its light. Lighting crashed across the sky, filling the air with the smell of sulfur. From a distance, her familiar howled. She levitated above us as time and our hearts stood still. And then she floated back to Earth. “Tonight you must swear to me by this full moon that what you learn from this day forth you will use only for good.” Elizabeth held up a simple silver chalice. “Constance, do you swear?”

“Yes, I do, Elizabeth.” She took the chalice and sipped before handing it back to Elizabeth.

“Sarah?”

“I do, Elizabeth.”

“Hester?”

“I swear with all my heart, Elizabeth.”

“Prudence?”

“I swear, Elizabeth.”

Each one responded in turn, following Constance’s example. And then she turned to me. “And you, my brightest pupil, my dearest Terra?”

“Are you OK? You’re shaking, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Twiggs’ voice brought me out of my trance. She was staring into my eyes. I couldn’t speak. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

I gazed up at her, brought back to reality. That Abigail girl was staring at me, not at me through me. She had seen everything I had imagined in my head. She knew me.

She spoke, “What’s wrong with that cat?”

“She has fits like that. I call them spells. They never last long, she will be fine,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

“Is she your cat?”

“No, not really. She’s been coming into the shop since I opened it. I fed her once, and now she keeps coming back.” Mrs. Twiggs ran her hand along my soft fur. I arched my back, accepting her touch. Over the years, I’ve tried talking to Mrs. Twiggs. She’s very intuitive in many ways. She can cast her own spells of sorts with her herbs and Appalachian remedies. But she never seems to understand me. This Abigail girl is a different creature. I think she can hear me.

Mrs. Twiggs and Abigail finished their tea. Abigail left, carrying her guitar. I meandered around Mrs. Twiggs’ legs rubbing my fur against her to thank her for watching over me and caring for me. It was my only way to communicate to her how I felt about her friendship. By the smiles and the rubbing of my fur, I knew she understood and appreciated that friendship also. Now I had to go. I had to follow this Abigail girl to see who or what she was. I kept a safe pace behind her as she walked, her guitar case in hand, back to her car. She grabbed something from the glove compartment and then left. I hopped on the hood and peeked in the window, trying to get a better understanding of who she was. Like many of the street dwellers, both cats and people I’ve met in Asheville, she carried her home with her. I hopped to the back window and looked inside and only saw her clothes, some fast food wrappers. I followed the Abigail girl’s scent down the sidewalks through the warehouse district, the seedier area of town, and saw her enter the pawnshop. As a customer opened the door, I snuck in to listen and see what she was doing.

“Excuse me, I have this watch I want to pawn,” The Abigail girl said to the man behind the glass. She hesitated as she handed it to him. From what I could tell, it appeared to be an elaborately engraved silver pocket watch. It obviously held some meaning for her other than monetary.

Taking a loupe to his eye, the man gave it a quick once-over. “Fifty dollars,” he said.

“It’s worth much more than that. It’s an antique,” she argued, her face falling at the low amount.

“Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it's an antique,” he said, trying to wind it. “It’s broken. It doesn’t even wind. Fifty dollars is a fair price, more than fair.”

“I want to pawn it. I don’t want you to sell it. I’ll be back for it.” The girl gave one last look at the watch as if reconsidering.

“If you’re pawning it, I’ll give you thirty dollars. You have 90 days to pick it up.”

I tried to hold my concentration but the gnawing sound from the corner kept pulling me away. I saw a fat field mouse that had found its way into the store. After centuries of being a cat, I had resolved myself to the fact that my meals would have to follow a cat’s preferences. If you had told me the things I would find enjoyable as a cat when I was a girl, I would have said you were insane. But this mouse sounded and smelled delicious to me. This girl, this Abigail, would have to wait until I filled my belly. As I turned my attention to the mouse, I heard a voice say, “What are you doing here?”

When I turned, the Abigail girl was inches from my face staring into my eyes. I said in my cat voice, “Who are you to ask me that?”

I shivered when she answered, “My name’s Abigail.”

The voices in my head

The Abigail girl picked me up by the scruff of the neck and pulled me out of the pawnshop. She carried me to a quiet corner of the adjacent parking lot. I dangled in front of her like a rag doll. If I had any of my old powers, I would have spent them on her in my fury. Instead I hissed and scratched her. “Calm yourself, cat. Why can I understand you? What are you?” She asked, shaking me.

“What am I? What are you? Why can you understand me?” I answered, continuing to struggle out of her grasp, clawing her arm with my sharpened claws. “For all these years, I’ve tried to speak with humans. But my speech has fallen on deaf ears.”

She put me down. I surrendered to my cat instinct and started cleaning my fur, removing her scent. Then she spoke to herself out loud, “I’m having one of my episodes. I’m imagining this. I’ve been off my meds for too long.” She counted the crumpled bills in her hand and walked across the street to the apothecary shop; that’s not correct; in today’s language it is called a drug store.

I followed her. She went up and down the aisles, gazing at different bottles. I had learned to read in several languages and could understand the purpose of these potions. Most were derivatives of roots and herbs that I had gathered myself back in Salem. The Abigail girl picked up some cold medicine, antihistamines and pain relievers. Then she walked down the naturopathic aisle and gathered St. John’s wort and Echinacea. The list went on. I watched carefully, realizing which potion she was creating. When I was an apprentice in Salem, I had watched Elizabeth give the humans who could not find sleep, potions with similar herbs, to calm the mind and take dreams away. The Abigail girl paid for her items and left never seeing me as I walked in the shadows. I had watched cats for hundreds of years walk like ghosts among the humans. They had many of the same characteristics as witches. I was too young at the time of my turning to have a familiar but if I had, it certainly would have been a cat.

Elizabeth never finished my training. She also had not the time to teach me to turn myself back into a girl. On one hand, she saved my life but on the other she imprisoned me in this body. I had spent lifetimes searching for a way to return to my former self. The Abigail girl left the store and hid behind the dumpster in the alley. She crushed up the herbs and pills spilling them into a water bottle she had bought. She shook the mixture and downed it in one gulp. She was trying to stop the voices in her head. That’s when I said, “That’s not going to work.”

She jumped out of her skin, spilling much of the water bottle down her shirt. She turned to look at me. “You’re not real. I’m not hearing you. The voices will stop in a while and you will go back to being a cat.”

“Abigail, I’m not a real cat.”

Abigail poured the rest of her water over me. I hissed and ran off. I’ve learned to hate water. I shook my body, spraying the ground around me.

The Cabin

After drying myself off in the mid-afternoon sun, I took a quick catnap. I had forgotten all about the fat field mouse until I woke up and felt how hungry I was. I ran back to Mrs. Twiggs’ teashop, which overflowed with the lunchtime crowd. I wasn’t allowed in when the humans were eating. I jumped up on the alley dumpster to peek in the kitchen window and scratched. Mrs. Twiggs looked up from where she was washing teacups in the kitchen sink. She opened the window. “Dear, what are you doing? You know it’s not time for you yet.”

I used my best pouting cat face. She reached up on her tiptoes and scratched behind my ears. I purred loudly and furiously, rubbing my head against her hand.

“Oh, OK, just this once.” She grabbed me and pulled me in. “I’ve got some leftover tuna you can have.” She fixed me a bowl, and I settled in. When I was done, I wrapped around her legs. As she turned to wash the lunchtime dishes, I jumped up on the table to study myself in a copper teakettle. I had been relatively attractive as a young witch. That feature I thought transferred to my cat body. My gray tiger-striped back and leopard spot belly aren’t so unusual for an alley tabby, but my eyes, green as emeralds, are clear and piercing. My facial features are soft and feminine. My whiskers dance when I purr and tumble. If I had to be a cat, this is the cat I wanted to be. Mrs. Twiggs caught me studying myself and chuckled. “You are such a little princess for a rough and tumble outdoor cat.”

I looked up, blinking my eyes at her. She fixed herself a cup of tea and sat down. “You know, dear, I never gave you a name because I don't feel it is my place. A name is a very personal thing. I think a name says a lot about a person.” She paused. “Or a cat.” She sipped her tea. “You’re always welcome here. In fact I wish you would stay with me all the time but you don't seem that kind of cat. You're too smart for that nonsense. No, you are a free spirit.”

I blinked at her again. Over the last 10 years of our friendship, I tried to talk to her in blinks hoping she would understand. I had spent hours learning Morse code from an old book I had found on her shelf. But poor Mrs. Twiggs didn’t have the ability to understand me. She spoke to me out of loneliness, to hear her own voice, better than the silence of a dead husband. As much as people came and went in her life, the loss of her precious Albert could never be reconciled. I feel that heartache from Lionel’s death. “Yes, dear I miss Lionel, too,” she said. Maybe I was getting through to her. “Who would want to kill such a nice gentleman? A man who would never hurt a soul. A man who had nothing to give up except his life. I hope the police find who did this.”

“If they don’t, I will,” I said.

Mrs. Twiggs merely smiled, not understanding my purrs and my noises. Or maybe she did? I gave her one last nuzzle and then headed back out into the streets.

I wandered through the crowds of tourists darting in and out of the stores. Sped by the local brewery where hipsters sat with their dogs on the patio. I heard a soft voice singing. It was Abigail. She stood outside the hundred-year old general mercantile store, playing her guitar and singing. Her guitar case contained a few crumpled dollar bills in it. Even above the powering scent of perfumes and homebrew that poured onto the sidewalks, I could smell Abigail. I could smell her scent but it was more than her scent. It was what Mrs. Twiggs called her aura, the colors that outlined Abigail. As a witch I could see those colors around humans; as a cat, I could smell them. Her aura scent was different yet familiar. I had smelled it somewhere in my memory. The song she played which had put me in a trance was the melody my coven had sung the night before the witch hunters came for us. It was a very ancient melody dating back to what Elizabeth told us was the realm of the Druids. Many of the witches who came to America were from Scotland and Ireland. Their bloodlines dated back thousands of years to the spell casters who walked the earth from Samaria and the Nile back to the dawn of mankind and beyond. Our bloodline is ancient. Abigail's aura scent is ancient.

People walked past her, looking right through her like they do with me. Not acknowledging that she was a beating heart. In my three hundred years living as a cat, seeing people from this vantage point, I grew to appreciate and at the same time, to be disappointed in humans. They could be both kind and cruel.

A drunk stumbled out of the bar, smashing into Abigail’s shoulder. She righted herself, protecting her guitar. I listened in when he stopped to talk to the girl. “Hey, you’re really good. What’s your name? You’re cute. How old are you?” He stood inches away from Abigail shifting from foot to foot barely standing. His belly popping out from under his beer soaked T-shirt. His greasy hair stuck against the sweat of his forehead.

Abigail politely said thank you and moved away. The drunken man moved with her. “No, I mean it. You’re really cute.” He reached for Abigail. She knocked his hand away. When she started to walk away, he grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her into the alleyway. I heard her yell. He pulled her into the dark. I ran after her, jumping on a fire escape as he put his hand over her mouth to stifle her screams. I leapt onto his back and clawed fiercely into the skin of his face. He screamed, “What’s going on? What is that?” He fell to the ground in agonizing pain. His face contorted, changing shape, his eyes bulging and turning blood red. A voice not from this world came from his throat, “It comes.”

Abigail picked me up and we ran, grabbing her guitar on the way. When she finally stopped, breathless, we had reached the outskirts of Asheville by the Biltmore Estate. She fell to the ground sobbing. I pushed myself next to her, rubbing my scent over her. She ran her fingers along my soft fur. “What was that? Have I finally gone insane?” She stared into my eyes. “Was that real? Are you real?”

“Yes, Abigail, I’m real. Everything you’ve ever known or think you know is about to change. There are alternative worlds and creatures that walk between them. That creature in the alley was from the shadow world.”

“What kind of creature are you?”

“My name is Terra Rowan. At one time I was much like you. Circumstance put me in this body and powers I don’t yet understand have bought us together.”

“I’m too tired to understand this tonight. I have to find a place to stay.” She rubbed her eyes, yawning and stretching.

I was exhausted as well; bringing her this far had taken much of my energy. “You can’t stay on the streets. It’s not safe anymore. I know a place. Follow me.”

I led her into the densely forested woods between the oaks, ash and thorn. These three trees are the magical trinity of the fairy folk. The mountain ash tree known as the rowan, my namesake, holds the power to ward off fairies and protect against black magic. As I’ve said, mine is an ancient bloodline. On my eighteenth birthday, I was to craft my wand from my ash spirit tree, the source of my power as a white witch. My wanding day never came.

Abigail tripped as the terrain became stubborn, not giving ground easily, I could tell she was exhausted. Asheville sits in a valley between the Blue Ridge, Appalachians and Smoky mountains. The mountain forests are thick with thorns and creatures that guard its entrance. Every step spends your strength and your will to continue; yet the Abigail girl did not rest. We headed up Black Mountain following the stream that runs from the French Broad River through the mountain. After some time walking in the dark, Abigail stopped. I had forgotten that humans don’t have my night vision. She stood perfectly still, it wasn't the dark that stopped her, it was the feeling we were being watched. We hurried on at an urgent pace until we reached our destination. The Abigail girl stood looking over the old log cabin. “It’s been empty for years since Agatha Hollows died. She took me in when I first came to Asheville,” I said as she walked up the creaking steps. She peeked inside holding her nose.

“It’s not so bad. There’s plenty to eat,” I said as I heard a mouse scurry into a dark corner.

She looked at me. “How long has Agatha been gone?”

“She died shortly after the war.”

She looked around. “What war?”

“The big war,” I replied.

“Surely you can’t mean World War II. You can’t be that old.”

“No, the war between the states. The Civil War,” I said.

“The Civil War,” she repeated. “How old are you?”

“I was 17 in the year of our lord 1692.” I thought for a moment. “So that would make me 325 years old.”

“How is that possible?”

“I'm a witch. We age much differently than your folk. We have much of your same frailties; our bodies can’t last forever but we live much longer than humans. Until we reach our wanding age of 18, we age as you do. Once we wand, we stay young for hundreds of years,” I explained. “That’s why we live in secret, constantly moving from town to town. We must keep our secret.”

“I'm too exhausted to understand this tonight. Please let’s get some sleep.” She found an old cot in the corner of the cabin by the fireplace. She was already sound asleep when I dropped the mouse by her feet. I made quick work of my dinner and then I fell asleep next to her.

I woke up, leaving her still asleep. I owed it to Lionel to find out what happened to him. I headed back to town and to the alley to find the black and white stray I call Pippa. Giving names to animals reminds me that I am not one of them. Pippa frequents the alley where Lionel was killed. I found her sitting by the alley’s entrance begging from passersby. She was a tuft of a mutt no more than 10 or 11 pounds with curly, matted fur. Her eyes are kind, her disposition sweet. She is a tolerable dog by my belief. “Pippa, did you see what happened to Lionel?”

“I wasn’t there.” She wagged her tail.

“Have you heard anything at all?”

“The fat orange cat.” I knew which fat orange cat she was talking about. I’d seen him scrounging for food, constantly on the move. Throughout my centuries as a cat, I learned to communicate to animals telepathically through images. Cats were the most telepathic of all; they usually understood quickly. Dogs are arrogant. They dislike cats and struggle with the concept that I can communicate with them. Another reason I began naming the animals that lived on the street. It helped them accept me as a friend. I had never spoken to the orange cat but I knew he’d be where food would be found. The large tomcat was outside the Dunkin Donuts, rummaging through a garbage can. All I could see was his fluffy hind side sticking out of the trash bin as his long tail wagged ferociously. He popped his head out of the garbage with a half a donut on his head and hissed at me. “Hush up,” I said.

He didn’t understand. “Do you hear me talking to you?” He turned his head sideways looking very confused and stupid.

That’s when I realized he wasn’t the brightest cat in the alley. I began to talk slower. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Me,” he replied.

“OK, what does that mean?”

He shook the donut off his head. “Me,” he said again, nibbling at it.

I looked into his thoughts. In them he was laying on his back eating a piece of pizza surrounded by discarded hotdog buns. “You’re hungry?”

He shook his head and said, “Me hungry.”

“OK, we have that settled. I can catch you a delicious mouse,” I said showing him an image of a mouse.

Mouse, he understood and jumped out of the garbage dumpster to rub against me and bite my neck. “Me hungry, me hungry, me hungry, me hungry.”

“What should I call you? We need to establish names first. My name is Terra. Can you say Terra?”

“Me hungry Terra.”

“OK, very good. Now what do you look like? What is your name? Your name is very important. It says a lot about who and what you are. It gives you a presence, a place. It leaves behind who you were. We must choose a name that is appropriate.”

I looked around but he was gone. “Orange cat, where did you go?” I walked down the alley, searching for him.

I could see his silhouette through a cracked stained glass window lying in a pile of furniture. He looked fuzzy, pixilated. He smiled his pixilated grin at me. “Pixel, that’s your name.”

He popped his head out from around the window. “Me Pixel, Pixel,” he repeated.

“You are Pixel, we established that. Were you in this alley the other night?”

“Me Pixel.”

I sighed. “We’re going to have to work on this.” Using my telepathy, I showed him an image of Lionel. He understood.

“Did you see what happened to Lionel?”

Pixel didn’t understand.

“Did you see bad things?”

There was something blocking his thoughts. I couldn’t see them. I thought at first it was his inability to summon up images, even basic ones like the other cats. It was more than that. He was hiding something. “Pixel, let’s get you something to eat.”

“Pixel hungry,” were his final words as he followed me.

Pixel and I headed back to the cabin. The Abigail girl was waking up. She hadn’t eaten any of the mice I had left her. So I ran to the stream and caught several fish. I threw one to Pixel who made short work of his. I carried the other triumphantly to the Abigail girl. She found flint strike and started a fire. She gathered up some twigs. She cleaned the fish. Pixel waited for his share patiently by the fire. “Who is this?” she asked.

“This is Pixel,” I told her.

“Me Pixel,” Pixel said, pleased with himself, puffing up his white chest.

She appeared surprised. “I can understand him, too.”

“You’re hearing him through me.”

“Oh, of course, I forgot. You’re a witch,” she said.

“Witch?” Pixel asked.

“Don’t worry about it, Pixel,” I said before turning to the Abigail girl. “I think Pixel knows what happened to Lionel but he’s not telling.”

She gave Pixel a stern look. Pixel cleaned his paws and then his belly, rolling over on his back, rocking back and forth in his ignorant bliss.

“Don’t mind Pixel, he’s not very bright.”

“What did Pixel see?”

“It’s not what he saw, it’s what he heard. He keeps humming a song that Lionel played, a Delta blues song.”

“Lionel was a musician?”

“Yes, a very talented guitar player, singer, songwriter much like yourself.”

She smiled. “Thank you, I appreciate that. Not too many people have said that to me.”

“Lionel played a song for me the night he was murdered.”

“Sing me the melody. What are the lyrics?” she asked.

“The world is turning while the angels keep watch. It’s the last line I heard before I fell asleep. That’s what has been bothering me. I don’t know how I could sleep through…” I hesitated feeling a sudden guilt. I could have saved him. I could have fought off whoever did that to him. Something or someone kept me asleep.

She repeated, “Angels keep watch. It does sound like a Delta blues lyric.”

“Lionel loved the blues. He said he had swamp water running through his veins.”

“I think I would have liked Lionel,” Abigail said.

I nodded. “Lionel was very humble. Even though he was a man of means at one time, he chose to live on the streets.”

“Why would he do that?” She asked.

“Lionel watched over people.”

“What do you mean watched over people?”

“All beings have a purpose. Some are given that purpose, others find it. Lionel found his, he took care of people. The people who need the most care are the street folk. He made sure we had a place to sleep, food to eat. He kept us safe. He was able to do that because people trusted him. I don't think he would have earned that trust if he hadn’t lived amongst us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“To understand Lionel you have to understand where he came from,” I said. “He was a preacher from a small parish in Louisiana, a leader in the community. It could have been any small town in America where hard-working folks attend church on Sunday. A family of sorts and Lionel their father.” I paused, remembering Lionel sharing his stories. “But under that idyllic parish lay a darkness, a curse. There are places in this world that keep a dark silence, a knowing you might say. Lionel’s parish was such a place. Members of his congregation started disappearing. At first they thought it bad luck. The swamp is a dangerous place in itself but the bayou folk know differently. They understand black magic. They have a name for when evil takes good folk. They call it the reckoning. But life continued as it must. On Sunday he preached God’s mercy to a dwindling congregation. He kept the faith for the faithful and gave his parish hope. Whatever magic was in Lionel saved his parish. A few years later, he fell in love and married. When he learned she was with child, he nearly burst with joy so he said. His joy was short-lived because his young bride died giving birth to his child. And his first born, a boy child, was stillborn. The reckoning came for Lionel and then the rains came, it took his parish, it took his aunt and uncle. It took everyone Lionel knew. The levee broke and took them all. The reckoning took them all leaving only Lionel behind.”

She sat down in the rocking chair beside the fire. I jumped up on her lap and began to purr, an emotion I couldn’t control. “I can’t accept what you’re telling me,” she said.

“I told you your reality is never going to be the same. There’s a lot of magic out in the world. Not all of it is good. You can choose to accept it or pretend it doesn’t exist. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s there. The reckoning followed Lionel. It took his life.”

“Me tired,” Pixel interrupted. He lay down next to the fire, rolling back and forth on his back, wagging his tail. A bright orange and blue aura color radiated from the fat orange cat, the essence of peace and kindness. He was a kind cat. Whatever he knew about Lionel’s murder, he would tell us in time.

The Abigail girl gazed around the cabin, seeing its dusty floors, dirty windows and the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. “This could be a nice place.” She walked around, the floorboards creaking. I followed. Stepping outside, she went to the small outbuilding where Agatha Hollows kept her herbs and medicinals. The small vials were dusty, drenched in the same cobwebs as the cabin. “What is all this?”

“Agatha Hollows was a healer. The mountain people came to her for all their ills. This is where she kept her medicine.”

Abigail picked up a jar of sage, opened it, and took a whiff.

“She taught me how to use the local herbs to make potions. I know which ones can help with your headaches,” I said.

“Can you stop the voices?”

“The voices are real, Abigail. You can only stop them by listening to them.”

She ignored me. It took me many years to accept the voices I heard. Abigail sat down on a small stool by a rack that held jars of dried herbs. She opened one and pulled out the herbs. They were brittle from drying too long. She took them in her hands and breathed them in.

“That’s digitalis. The kind woman used it for patients who had heart problems.”

I watched her, trying to determine who she was. As of yet, I had not teetered to one side or the other.

We spent the day tidying up our new home. Brought together by circumstance and need, we were becoming a family. I studied the Abigail girl as she cleaned. She hummed softly to herself while Pixel danced around her. She was no stranger to hard work. Pixel was a little more reluctant. He was perfectly happy, tumbling about, looking for mischief and food. I sent him into the woods to hunt for our supper. I watched him scamper off, belly wobbling, scraping the floor. He made a fine dust broom. His orange striped tail disappeared into the blackberry bushes.

By twilight Pixel returned with a rabbit, which he dropped at Abigail’s feet. He sat and watched her clean and cook it, never taking his eyes off his kill. “Me hungry,” he moaned. By darkness air turned cold and then we heard the howling.

Pixel flew to the windowsill. His tail bashing back and forth frantically, making little growling noises, answering whatever it was that hunted us. Whatever it was, it kept sure to stay in the shadows.

“Is it a wolf?” Abigail asked.

I shook my head no. I could smell its aura. It was very old and very evil. It was not of this world. Before I could warn Pixel, he slipped out the front door and headed into the darkness. Abigail yelled, “Pixel, no.” I threw myself at her feet, tripping her before she could reach the door. And then I ran out to help him.

I splashed over the stream, darted through the overgrown blackberry bushes, which snagged at my fur, following the scent of the creature. I could hear Pixel screaming further up the mountain. “Pixel, save, Pixel, save,” his words came out as quick gasps. I ran as fast as my four legs could take me until I reached a clearing where I found Pixel lying on his side, bleeding. I covered his body with mine, swiveling my head back and forth, searching for the unknown creature who had done this to my friend. “I save Terra,” Pixel whispered.

“Yes, you did, Pixel.” I picked him up by the scruff and carried him back to the cabin, stopping in the stream to wash his wounds. That’s when I saw a pair of red eyes glowing from the woods. I backed up slowly, pulling Pixel onto the bank of the stream. Elizabeth had told me that dark creatures couldn’t cross over moving water. That’s why the good are baptized in water to defend against evil. And that’s why Agatha Hollows built her cabin by the stream.

Abigail ran out of the cabin, lifting us both off the ground, pulling us in and locking the door behind her. “What was that?” she said looking over Pixel’s wounds. She tore a piece of her T-shirt and stanched the blood from the worst of them. She began to boil water in the hearth.

“Pixel, fine. Me OK,” he said with a brave heart.

Exhausted by the battle, Pixel flipped over near the fire and fell asleep. Abigail glanced at me as she finished cleaning Pixel. “What was that, Terra?”

I had no answer. I simply said, “You sleep now. I’ll keep watch.” I climbed up to the windowsill, staring out into the darkness.

Morning Breaks

I kept a steady watch through the night. With the sunlight came safety. Dark creatures prefer the cover of darkness. I could hear Pixel talking in his sleep behind me, “Me hungry,” he said repeatedly. Apparently even in his dreams food is foremost on his mind.

Abigail stoked the fire and pulled the chair up to the window next to me. “Terra, what happened last night?”

“Whatever creature it was, it was malevolent. Its smell was muddy and putrid.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Abigail, whatever it was is gone. Today we will make preparations to ensure it never returns.”

“I need some caffeine like really bad. Let’s head into town,” Abigail said, standing up.

I nudged Pixel to wake him up. He stood, stretched and emitted his Pixel noise, a combination of happy growls and hunger cries. “I know, Pixel.”

“Pixel hungry.”

“We have to hurry to make it to Mrs. Twiggs before her store opens. She’ll have plenty for you to eat.”

We made our way back down the mountain. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something tracking us. Every so often a flash of red and white would break through the green of the trees. It was not the creature from the night before but I could not be sure of its intention. I urged my companions to hurry. Pixel heard it also above the rumbling of his tummy. I was amazed how fearless this fat orange alley cat was. He was determined to make Mrs. Twiggs before her store opened and no bear, boar or dragon could stop him. I couldn’t help but to smile.

As we entered the city limits, our tracker disappeared back into the forest. We reached Mrs. Twiggs as the others were already lined up by the garbage cans, cats and dogs alike. She tried not to play favorites but I knew she was a cat person.

Mrs. Twiggs peeked out the kitchen window into the alley. When she saw Abigail, she opened the back door. “Dear, I’ve been so worried about you. Your car’s been parked out front all night. Where have you been?”

“Mrs. Twiggs, it’s a long story but one that would tell better over a cup of tea. If you don’t mind?”

“Certainly, dear, come in, sit by the fire.” Mrs. Twiggs led Abigail into the front room and sat her in the chair where Mrs. Tangledwood had rested the day before. Pixel and I snuck in, sticking close on Abigail’s heels.

Mrs. Twiggs brought out plates of crumbled raspberry scones, bacon and whatever lunch was left from the day before to the back alley. I heard the others meowing and barking happily as she fed them. When she came back inside, Pixel meowed and circled around Mrs. Twiggs’ feet. “Abigail how did these two get in?”

“They’re with me,” Abigail said.

“I don't recognize this orange tomcat.”

“They stayed with me last night in a cabin up on Black Mountain.”

“Oh, Abigail, I better fix myself a cup of tea first. This sounds like quite a tale.” As Mrs. Twiggs served tea and breakfast, Abigail began reliving our previous night. Mrs. Twiggs quietly listened, absorbing each word, nodding politely, adding extra sugar cubes to her Earl Grey. As Abigail continued so did Mrs. Twiggs addition of the sugar cubes. I counted 10 in all. When Abigail had finished, Mrs. Twiggs finished her tea and slowly returned it to its saucer. She sat quietly for a moment, pondering, and then spoke, “Abigail, dear, that’s quite a story.” I could tell by her inflection that she did not believe a word Abigail spoke. “Dear, if you need help, there’s a free clinic downtown that helps people in these situations.”

“What kind of situations?” Abigail sat up.

“You’re obviously overtired, distraught. The mind can play tricks on a person,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

“Mrs. Twiggs, I’m not crazy.”

“No, dear, I never said you were crazy. I don’t think that at all.”

“Well, that’s what you implied.”

“Dear, don’t be upset.” Mrs. Twiggs reached out her hand and patted Abigail’s arm.

Abigail stood up. “Thanks for breakfast.” Then she walked out the door. Pixel and I following behind.

“Abigail, Mrs. Twiggs is a good woman. She’s only trying to help,” I said.

“She thinks I’m crazy. Why shouldn’t she? I think I'm crazy. I’m talking to a cat.”

Pixel stared up at Abigail with his big orange saucer eyes and meowed. “No offense, Pixel,” Abigail said.

“We’re going to need some supplies. How much money do you have left?” I asked.

Abigail checked her pockets. She pulled out two one-dollar bills. Then she reached in her other pocket and pulled out the keys to her car. “I don’t have money for gas. I can’t pay the parking tickets, and I can’t sleep in it overnight.”

We left the used car lot with a $150. “We need some food for you. Pixel and I can catch what we need. There are some herbs and spices we’ll have to purchase,” I said.

Abigail looked down the street toward the Leaf & Page. “We best go somewhere else.” Pixel and I waited outside the Ingles supermarket. I recited to Abigail a list of herbs that we needed. After she picked everything up, we returned to the cabin. She placed the bags on the small wooden table by the potbelly stove. “OK, Terra, you want to explain what all this is?”

I leapt up on the table and nuzzled the small box of cloves. “The clove is a very powerful protective against evil spirits.” Then I nuzzled the cumin. “The cumin we mix with the salt.”

Pixel tried to leap on the table, failed and sat on the floor watching, licking his wounds.

“Abigail, I’ll walk you through it. Equal parts salt and cumin sprinkled on the windowsills and doorway stops evil from entering. Also place the dill above the front and back door.” I stared out the window intensely. Every once in a while I saw the same flash of red and white through the blackberries. It was a blur.

After she had followed my instructions, Abigail picked up garlic cloves and gave me a sarcastic look. “Tell me this isn’t for vampires, Terra.”

“No, don’t be silly. There’s no such thing as vampires but it does work against shape shifters, raccoons and black magic.”

“Raccoons?”

“From that sentence, you took away raccoons?”

Abigail laughed.

“Raccoons are mortal enemies of cats. I’d prefer the shape shifter and black magic over a raccoon.”

“Pixel, too.”

“Is this really going to keep away whatever was out there last night?”

“We need to gather some more herbs, twigs and berries from the forest, to make a wreath of blackberry and rowan.”

“Your namesake, right?”

“Yes, the mountain ash tree. There are several around the cabin. Agatha Hollows planted these trees to make protective wreaths for the mountain folk. Because the ash tree is my spirit tree, Abigail, it makes the talisman even more powerful.”

We spent the day outside gathering what we needed and fashioning our talismans. As I picked the blackberry and its leaves, I was careful not to give notice to our tracker that I had seen him. As of yet, I did not know his intentions but thought that if they were bad, he would have made them known by now. Instead he just watched. Pixel came up behind me growling. “I know it smells like a dog, Pixel, but I can’t be sure,” I told him.

“We go now,” Pixel said.

We returned to the cabin. Abigail had laid out cans of tuna. She was scratching her hands. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I must have touched something that irritated my skin. Maybe it was poison oak or sumac.”

I saw the nettle leaves in her basket by the dandelions. “Why did you pick these?”

“I don’t know. I felt like we should have them.”

Nettle Leaves

Nettle leaves. Mrs. Twiggs uses them for aching bones. Elizabeth also used them to capture curses and send them back to the caster. There’s more to this Abigail girl than I first thought.

After eating her supper, Abigail pulled out her guitar and strummed it softly. Pixel wrapped his way around her feet then finally settled on his back in front of the fireplace. I felt we were safe and yet occasionally turned a watchful eye to the window. I allowed myself to relax, finally drifting off while Abigail’s melody played in my head until I wasn’t sure if it was Abigail playing or not. The music grew louder. The choir finished its hymn; I sat on the hard wood pew, struggling to keep my eyes open as Reverend Samuel Parris stepped up to the pulpit. “The lord watches over us in these troubled days. He tests us with temptations of the flesh as we see in Salem town. With prosperity comes pride, one of the seven deadly sins. I look around me. I see hard-working farmers, good Christians who believe that hard work and sacrifice is the way to heaven. Make no mistake, the devil walks amongst us. Thou must shun the ways of pride.”

Prudence whispered in my ear, “He’s jealous because the townspeople have bigger houses, finer clothes and more prospects than us poor villagers.”

“Shh,” I quieted Prudence before the tithing man could tickle us with his wand of foxtails. To talk in church meant punishment by his hand. I glanced around at the congregation dressed in their plain wear and white bonnets. I adjusted mine. Elizabeth, even in the simplest of clothes, stood out from the other young women. Her beauty was undeniable and must be the reason the reverend’s apprentice Jonathan Goodall vied for her attention. Elizabeth had told me once of his intentions to marry her but that meant giving up all who she was.

When service ended, we gathered in the courtyard filled with spring lilacs, releasing sweet perfume. “What of tomorrow?” Prudence asked.

“Prudence, Elizabeth’s warned us not to speak of that day,” I said, giving a furtive glance around to ensure that no one was listening.

“I don’t understand why all the secrecy.”

“You know that the elders have forbidden the May Day celebration,” I whispered.

Finishing her conversation with the young Goodall, Elizabeth came over to us, a small smile gathering on her face. “Terra, Prudence, you were causing quite the commotion in service. Prudence, I’ve spoken to you about such behavior. We should not be drawing unseemly attention to ourselves. With last year’s poor crops, rumor has spread of witches amongst us.”

“Everything bad is blamed on us. If someone stubs his or her toe, it’s a witch. If a child has a bad dream, it’s a witch. When will these mortals take responsibility for themselves?” Prudence said.

Elizabeth grabbed Prudence by the arm firmly, pulling her behind the lilacs. I followed. In a hushed voice, Elizabeth commanded, “Do not speak of these things. Do not act out. You’re endangering all of us.”

“Yes, Elizabeth, of course.” Prudence stared down at the ground at her black shoes adorned with inappropriately oversized silver buckles. Her skirt had covered her indiscretion.

Elizabeth noticed them, too. “Prudence, I told you never to wear those.”

“No one can see. They make me feel good. Why shouldn’t I have nice things like the townsfolk?” Prudence asked.

Elizabeth’s smile disappeared.

I felt something brush against my face, followed by a scratch like sandpaper on my ear. I could feel my arms and legs turning into paws, my skin to fur, I was no longer a young girl. I woke to find Pixel curled up on me, cleaning my ear.

I could smell bacon frying in the old cast iron pan. “I made breakfast and some tea. Do cats drink tea?” Abigail asked.

Pixel jumped up, not understanding but smelling the food in the air. “Me hungry. Me hungry.” He circled around the cabin, his tail wagging ferociously.

I jumped to the table and sniffed the tea. It had a distinct musky minty smell. “Abigail, is this nettle tea?”

“Yes, I added some nettle leaves to the green tea.”

“Why would you do that?”

Abigail stopped and thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Abigail, what are you doing in Asheville? Why did you come here?”

She took the bacon out of the pan, plated it and sat across from me. Pixel reached up her leg, trying to get to the bacon. She lifted him up to the table. While he devoured his meal, Abigail said, “I told my parents I was hearing voices in my head. At first they thought it was a young girl’s nonsense but as I grew older the voices became stronger. They shuffled me between doctors. Finally they took me for an MRI. I overheard them telling the doctor that they didn’t know my family history because I was adopted. When I confronted them about the adoption, they didn’t want to talk about it. They handed me the pocket watch and said it belonged to my real parents. I was so angry I left, and I haven’t spoken to them since.” She paused. “I think the voices are my real parents but I can’t remember their faces.”

“What do the voices say?”

“They told me to come to Asheville to get down to the crossroads.”

Crossroads, I thought, Lionel believed Asheville was his crossroad. I curled up on the chair, pondering that word and what it meant for him, for her, for them.

Abigail stood and walked to the sink to clean the dishes. Pixel dropped a mouse at Abigail’s feet. She bent down and scratched his back. “Thank you, but I'm full from breakfast.”

Pixel grinned up at her as the mouse scampered to safety. As Pixel helped Abigail clean the dishes, I rummaged through her garbage bag suitcases, going through her clothes, looking for clues of who she was, why she was here and how she was connected to Lionel. I usually have great intuition when it comes to these matters, but the trust I had placed in Abigail was dwindling. She was parked near the alley where Lionel was murdered. She knew more about potions than she let on to me. For good or bad, something drew her to Lionel and perhaps because of it, Lionel was dead.

I stepped outside onto the wooden porch, overlooking Black Mountain. Morning dew stained the wood floorboards. There were massive paw prints leading to the front door and then a dry spot where something had settled for the night. I could smell our tracker. Pixel was right, he smelled like a dog. “Me, right,” Pixel exclaimed from behind me.

“How did you sneak up on me like that? I didn’t hear you.”

“Me quiet,” Pixel whispered, biting my ear.

We followed the paw prints that circled the cabin. Pixel dug into the fresh dirt around back. He proudly presented me with some sticks, which I recognized as ash, thorn and oak. Pixel scurried to another freshly filled hole, and retrieved the same. This continued around the entire perimeter of the cabin. Pixel sat with a twig in his mouth and a confused look. “This combination of sticks is good magic, Pixel. White magic. It protects anyone within the cabin,” I told him. No dog would know to do this.

“Pixel, Abigail,” he said.

“No, not now, Pixel, let’s keep this to ourselves until we find out who this tracker is.” I stared off into the distance but didn’t see any sign of our tracker. Pixel flopped over onto the grass and rolled around in mad circles. I am constantly amazed at his joy in simple pleasures.

Abigail stepped onto the porch, holding her arm up to shield her eyes from the mid-morning sun. I saw her. Until now she had been the Abigail girl, the human who was to lead me to answers I was seeking but now I really saw her. She is an incredibly beautiful girl. Her platinum hair turning almost absolute white in the bright sun, giving her an ethereal quality. She is tall, much taller than the young girls of my time. Her slender features and pale skin would make a Tolkien elf envious. There is something very elfin about her, the way she carries herself, the way she walks through the forest as though she had walked here hundreds of years ago. A nimbleness to her step. She sat on the edge of the stairs, staring off at the same distance I had myself several minutes ago. She was searching for something.

I sat down next to her. That’s when I got a closer glimpse at the scar that ran down the back of her arm which was covered by a tattoo of Tinkerbell.

She caught me noticing it and covered it with her other arm. “Cat, what are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” I said, turning my back to her. Pixel scampered up the steps, jumping into her lap with his guttural happy noises. “Today is Lionel’s funeral. Myself and the others will be watching from the edge of the cemetery. We’re not allowed in when the humans are about. You’re welcome to come.”

Abigail nodded her agreement. As Pixel and Abigail started down the path to town, I ran into the cabin and retrieved the remaining bacon Abigail had made. I placed it outside the front door for the tracker. By nightfall, we should know his intentions. Either way I prepared myself.

A short while later, we entered the large iron gates of Riverside Cemetery, located deep within the Montford neighborhood. Lionel had talked about the cemetery in his last days as if he knew he would soon be a resident. He told me, “Bury me in the rolling hills overlooking the French Broad River. My people helped build this town, this cemetery; some of them are buried here. I want to be near family.”

Walking amongst the headstones, we passed Thomas Wolfe, O. Henry, famous literary figures who had called Asheville home. I realized I didn’t know Lionel’s last name. To everyone on the streets, he was just Lionel. Abigail stepped quietly through the headstones not noticing names. Pixel ran off chasing a squirrel. A crowd gathered by a freshly dug grave along the water. I wonder if Lionel knew that dark creatures couldn’t cross over moving water. Was that why he wanted his grave by the river? He had told me that the French Broad River was a powerful force. It is the second oldest river in the world, only the Nile is older. It had a good mojo, Lionel said. It defies nature because like the Amazon and Nile, it flows in a northerly direction. Lionel said it starts deep within the eastern continental divide where the world split apart, good on one shore, evil on the other. Maybe he did know. Maybe he did know that evil can’t cross moving water.

Abigail walked up to the back of the crowd, blending her way into the dark clothed mourners. I hid behind a headstone and listened to the preacher start his eulogy. He spoke with the same cadence as Lionel, a mixture of Cajun and southern drawl with a smearing of French. “I knew Lionel. He was a good man. Many days I would meet him at the park. He was a good chess player. I listened to his stories and he helped me with my sermons. Our church reached out to him, offered him a home but Lionel said his home was with the people who needed him on the streets of Asheville. Lionel would quote to me his favorite Bible verse, Luke 4:10, ‘He will put his angels in charge of you to watch over you carefully.’ Lionel felt this to be his calling, to watch over his flock. His people helped build this town when they came up from Louisiana. Lionel’s grandfather helped build some of these homes right here in Montford. Lionel told me he moved back here to spend his last days in the shadows of his grandfather’s work. The evil that took Lionel from us can’t take the memory of his good works. I look around at all these faces, all these souls that Lionel touched and made better. Just knowing Lionel made you a better person. Today we lay to rest a good man, Lionel Foret.”

“Foret?” I mused out loud. His last name was Foret, French for forest. I heard Mrs. Twiggs crying as the coffin was lowered. She followed the procession, dropping a lily onto the coffin. She took a sachet from her purse. I could smell the mixture of herbs, including nettle leaves. A poultice to help Lionel rest in peace. I ran up to her to comfort her, circling around her feet purring and rubbing up against her bare ankles. She bent down, picked me up and hugged me. Her tears soaked my fur.

“Oh, dear, how did you ever get here?” she asked. “How did you know Lionel was here? Never mind, I’m glad to see you.”

Abigail came up to us.

“Abigail, what are you doing here?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

Abigail spoke the words I had told her earlier, “Beatrice, I hope someday Albert will say good morning back to you. “

“What are you talking about?” she asked, her face turning pale white.

“Terra told me how each morning for the past 10 years before opening the shop you stop and stare at your husband’s photograph and say good morning.”

“How could you know this? No one has ever seen me do that.”

“Terra has. She’s watched you every day.”

Mrs. Twiggs lifted me up to her face, staring into my eyes. “Her name is Terra?”

“Yes, Terra Rowan,” Abigail said. “She is a witch turned into a cat.”

“Abigail, I don’t know how you know these things but I’m very worried about you.” Once again, Mrs. Twiggs looked into my eyes. “If you understand me, blink once.”

I blinked.

Mrs. Twiggs looked over at Abigail. “That’s coincidence. It can’t be possible. Why do you believe that you can understand her?”

“I don’t know. I stopped trying to figure it out. At some point it makes more sense to believe the unbelievable than to deny the inevitable.”

Mrs. Twiggs thought for a moment and then said, “Ask her. Ask Terra what I made for Emily the other day.”

I told Abigail who translated. “Mrs. Tangledwood was suffering from chilled bones. I guess she means arthritis. You made her a morning tea with herbs including nettle leaves and told her to take a warm bath with a lace blue agate pendant.”

Mrs. Twiggs like timber being felled to the ground, waving her arms madly trying to catch herself. She drew short, shallow breaths, unable to gather enough air into her lungs. She reached inside her purse and retrieved a small silver flask and took a long drink. “Are you OK?” Abigail asked, grabbing her arm and shoulder. I jumped onto her lap, purring and nuzzling.

“This can’t be,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “Why are you doing this to me, Abigail?”

“Terra and I need your help,” Abigail said. Before she could answer, Pixel came up over emitting his nonsense noises and dropping a squirrel at our feet. “Pixel catch dinner,” he said, his tail wagging. The squirrel bit Pixel’s nose and took off.

“Does this cat talk too?”

“Sort of.”

Mrs. Twiggs stood up and brushed off her black suit. “I think you all should come to the ladies of the Biltmore Society meeting tonight. They’re going to want to meet you.”

Ladies of the Biltmore Society

Pixel climbed up Mrs. Twiggs’ leg as she placed the three-tier cookie tray on the table. “Now, now, little one.” Mrs. Twiggs pulled Pixel off her leg and set him on the ground. She was finalizing preparations for her club. Abigail had helped, steeping tea. I lay on the window seat, soaking up the last of the late afternoon sun. Soon the cars would pull up in front of the building, large luxury vehicles like Mercedes, BMWs and Cadillacs. Then the women would pile out. The ladies of the Biltmore Society met once a month coincidentally or not on nights of the full moon. I was anxious to be an insider to the event. I had pictured dark-hooded robes, candlelight, and whispered passwords. Truth be told the ladies appeared in their Lilly Pulitzer, Eileen Fisher and St. John. First Mrs. Stickman, her name suited her. She was as thin as a rail, her back slightly bent depleted from years of calcium deficiency, her chin sharp as a chisel, her eyes sunken into her face, her hair grizzled and gray. Next came Jean Branchworthy as wide as a sequoia trunk, her hair fire red, her moon pie face was pleasant but her brown eyes held a fierceness. Nupur Bartlett, a small woman of East Indian descent. I had read many books on the East Indian culture, Hindu and their religions. She was dressed not in a sari but in a tailored St. John woven linen suit. Her long, dark hair hung straight down her back. As Mrs. Bartlett took Mrs. Tangledwood’s hand to help her up the front stairs, I noticed Mrs. Tangledwood’s perfectly manicured nails and a large emerald ring flashing in the sunlight. Gwendolyn Birchbark smiled kindly both at Mrs. Tangledwood and myself. She knelt down and scratched behind my ears. She had a kind face and a warm smile, a Chinese woman of elegance and refinement. Caroline Bowers, was next, her freckled face was peeling from sun exposure, a gift of her Irish heritage. Wanda Raintree bore the traces of her Cherokee ancestors, including a hint of sadness in her eyes. Mrs. June Loblolly’s statuesque bearing bore the traces of her supermodel past. Around her neck hung a gold chain with a Valkyrie pendant. A spry 70, she was the youngest of the ladies. Like Biltmore Forest they represented regions from around the world drawn to this spot--just as I was. Their ceremonial hats adorned with wreaths of fresh flowers and silver ribbons. Each unique yet similar.

Mrs. Twiggs donned her flowered hat. All the ladies gathered in the dining room at the long farmer’s table and took their places, Mrs. Twiggs at the head of the table. Instead of extinguishing candles, Mrs. Twiggs dimmed the crystal chandelier. Abigail poured tea for all the ladies, eight in all, nine including Mrs. Twiggs. I wondered if it was coincidence, for nine is the number of a closed coven. In my day at that table would have sat Constance, Hester, Sarah, Rebecca, Felicity, Hannah, myself, Prudence and at the head Elizabeth.

Mrs. Twiggs read from a large brown leather-bound volume that was worn from use. “In 1880, George W. Vanderbilt, a young man of 25, came upon the perfect spot in North Carolina’s Blue Ridge mountains for a 250-room French Renaissance chateau to be built by his friend, architect Richard Morris Hunt. The great chateau would be called Biltmore.”

The ladies sipped their tea and hurrahed. Mrs. Twiggs continued reading, “Of all the majesty of the great estate, the truly outstanding achievement would be the great work of master landscaper Frederick Law Olmsted. He created a setting where Franklinia and Persian ironwood trees grow side by side with mountain laurel, rhododendron, native azaleas and white pines. A full acre walled garden with 50,000 tulips each spring and chrysanthemum in the autumn and of course the all-American rose garden. But Olmsted’s genius didn’t stop there. To confuse and impress Vanderbilt’s esteemed guests he planted secret gardens of exotic plants from around the world.”

The ladies all hurrahed.

“Bamboo trees from the Orient. Baobab trees from Madagascar. Cork from the Mediterranean. Rare species of flora. Making the Biltmore a crossroads to the world,” Mrs. Twiggs continued reading.

As Mrs. Twiggs’ spoke, I found my eyelids growing heavy. The air became thick and my breathing labored. My body screamed for sleep.

“We are at a crossroads,” Elizabeth’s voice echoed in my ear. We were seated at the pine table in her dining room. Candles glowed as we all watched Elizabeth in her place at the head of the table. I knew I was dreaming but I couldn’t tell if the dream world was the Leaf & Page or Elizabeth’s farmhouse. Stepping between worlds I lost my foothold in reality.

Her aunt Agatha had already retired for the evening. Elizabeth’s parents had not survived the brutal winter, leaving her in her aunt’s care. The real cause of their death was not known to the coven even Elizabeth questioned the circumstance. In spite of the tragedy, Elizabeth remained steadfast in her devotion to our coven. “Salem town will continue to tax the village until we are all in debtor’s prison. This year the crops look to be as dismal as last. Both the townsfolk and the farmers blame witchcraft. Sitting at this table, we know differently but to try to convince the humans would give us away.” Elizabeth stood. “We must ever be on watch, careful not to reveal ourselves. I have made preparations for the harvest. There is a book of incantations that, when spoken aloud, will guarantee a good harvest. It comes with a price. This magic is neither white nor black. For that reason, I alone will be casting these spells. The book has not been opened in more than 10 centuries. It wields such great power that no one witch can control it. It would take the force of a closed nine, but you’re all too young, inexperienced. None of you have wanded yet. Only the Oakhaven bloodline dare try,” Elizabeth said.

“Elizabeth, how will you do this on your own?” I asked.

“It’s the only way,” she replied. “If you’re not strong enough to command the book, it will command you.”

We finished our ceremony and headed to our own homes through the dark woods, carrying lanterns, the only light visible for miles. Prudence and I shared our walk, the early spring snow crunching under our feet. “Terra, I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. Elizabeth keeps too many secrets from us. We’re supposed to be sisters. Her Jonathan Goodall stands to inherit not only his father’s business but a tidy profit from his family’s farmland holdings,” Prudence whispered.

“What are you saying, Prudence?” I asked.

“I’m saying, Terra, that Elizabeth stands to profit from Jonathan’s good luck, and she’s willing to put us all at risk for it. Why should we suffer while she profits? I deserve nice things,” Prudence said.

“Elizabeth would never put a mortal before us,” I disagreed with her. “She’s doing this to protect us, Prudence.”

The glow from a lantern caught our eye. A dark caped figure darted into Goodall and Sons Holdings, on the edge of town. “Is that?” Prudence asked me.

“Let’s go take a look,” I replied.

She extinguished our lantern and led me over. We peeked in the window as Elizabeth pulled down her hood. Jonathan Goodall embraced her, kissing her passionately. She returned the kiss. We watched as they spoke. “You see, you see, Terra. I told you we couldn’t trust her,” Prudence hissed.

“She loves him, Prudence,” I said, trying to pull Prudence away. “She’s never hidden that fact from us. He has spoken of marriage plans.”

“And what a great wedding gift to have a bumper crop of rye to build their lovely big house in town and leave us to the fields and farms.”

I pulled Prudence away. “Let’s go before she sees us. Let them be.”

“Terra sleep, Terra sleep,” A small voice echoed in my head. I opened my eyes to see orange saucers an inch away from me and then a white-covered paw biffed me in the head. “Pixel play. You it,” he said before running off at a frantic pace through the ladies’ legs.

“Now we come to why I have called this special meeting of the Biltmore Society,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “The founder of our society, Olmsted, believed there was more to this world than meets the eye. Traveling the world in search of exotic flora and fauna he came across cultures that believed there are powers that walk among us. He found such a culture here in Asheville. The settlers of the Appalachian Mountains believe there are forces of nature that can be controlled. Olmsted studied the local folklore. He believed as they did that the trees and rivers and mountains had their own spiritual identity. That even the creatures of the mountains have a soul.” Before I could agree with her, Mrs. Twiggs picked me up and continued speaking, “This grey tabby has been coming to my store for 10 years. She taps on the door and follows me about my day’s activities. I’ve always felt a connection to her and didn’t understand why. She looks at me as though she understands what I am saying to her and she does. Today I found out that she can communicate with us.”

Emma stood up. She took a sniff of her teacup. “Beatrice, what exactly is in this tea tonight?” And, then she turned to me and looked deep into my eyes as though, if just for a brief moment, she believed I could talk.

“Emma Tangledwood, what are you implying?” Mrs. Twiggs put her hands on her wide hips. The rest of the women became quiet. “Mrs. Bowers, Jean Branchworthy not for a moment do you believe I’m crazy? Doris Stickman, how many years have I known you?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

“Stickman, Branchworthy, Emma Tangledwood,” Hearing the names together, I finally understood. “The ladies of the Biltmore Society are a coven of Wiccans.” I leapt out of Mrs. Twigg’s arms and pulled Abigail out of the dining room into the kitchen.

“What are you doing, Terra? She was about to ask me to explain,” Abigail said.

“You can’t say anything, Abigail,” I told her, arching my back and pacing along the counter.

“What are you talking about, Terra? We need her help.”

“These women are all Wiccans.”

“It’s just a bunch of old women having tea, telling stories,” Abigail said.

“It’s their last names. Tangledwood, Stickman, Mrs. Twiggs, those are all parts of trees.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Abigail said.

“Witches’ true names date back to the times of the Druids who held trees sacred. The word Druid translates to keepers of the oaks. These names date back to the very beginning of time. They change throughout the millennia from the Druid name for oak to oak haven and many derivatives but they all have the witches’ spirit tree in their name. As I told you, mine is Rowan, which means mountain ash. Elizabeth, the leader of my coven, her last name was Oakhaven. Her descendants stretch back to the old ones.”

“So what is a Wiccan?” Abigail asked.

“Wiccans, true Wiccans--not the religious version of nature worshippers they’ve become in your time but the real Wiccans have bloodlines that date back to witches. When a witch marries a mortal, they have to give up their powers but their bloodline continues through their children. Their blood is mixed with mortal blood making them a half-witch or Wiccan. There are exceptions, they’re very rare. That bloodline continues as the centuries pass. Without training, the Wiccans lose their power and don’t even know that they carry the bloodline. These women all have powers they are not aware of.”

“What’s the problem? Tell them. They can help us, too,” Abigail said, making it sound so easy.

“You don’t understand. Besides Mrs. Twiggs and Mrs. Tangledwood, I don’t know these other women. Their bloodlines could hold white or black magic. I could unleash evil into the world. We must tread carefully and learn their real purpose,” I told her.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Abigail, will you please come in here, right now dear?” Mrs. Twiggs called from the dining room. “This is Abigail. She can hear the cat talk. Abigail, talk to the cat,” Mrs. Twiggs commanded.

Abigail stood silent assessing the room and the waiting ladies. “Mrs. Twiggs, I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“Abigail, at the funeral today, what about all those things you told me that no one but the cat could have known?” Mrs. Twiggs gave me a shocked look.

“Mrs. Twigs, you were very upset. It’s very understandable. A friend of yours was murdered in your alley. No one would expect you not to be upset,” Abigail said.

Mrs. Stickman cleared her throat and stood. “Beatrice, we’re going to call an end to the meeting.”

“Wait, don’t go,” Mrs. Twiggs pleaded.

Shaking their heads, the ladies filed out, one after another, leaving Mrs. Twiggs alone with Abigail and myself. Mrs. Twiggs walked over and locked the front door, then turned to us with a stern look. “What’s this all about, Abigail?”

Abigail explained everything I had told her about the ladies. Mrs. Twiggs plopped down on a tiny wooden chair that creaked and wobbled not wanting to accept the load. “Is the cat speaking to you now?”

“Tell Mrs. Twiggs I can help her make a potion that will unleash her powers. If she is a true Wiccan, she will be able to understand me,” I said.

Abigail explained to Mrs. Twiggs. I jumped up on the dining room table and rubbed up against her, staring into her eyes and blinking. She rubbed my head. “I understand, Terra.” The three of us worked late into the night, grinding various herbs and plants. “Terra, no eye of newt or bat wing?” Abigail asked with a sarcastic air.

“If you have some, that would be great but it won’t help.”

As we concocted the potion, Mrs. Twiggs took notes in her leather-bound book. I glanced over her shoulder as she flipped pages. There were scribblings of other potions and cures. I asked Abigail to ask her about them. “These are some of the ‘recepts’ as the mountain folk call them. They have been handed down over the years. I’ve collected them as I travel through the mountains, talking to the locals. Some of these recepts are from Europe. This one is for nosebleeds. You hold a knife up and let the blood drip on to the edge of the blade. It cuts the nosebleed.”

“Ask her about these drawings,” I said.

Abigail relayed the question. “Some of the original settlers in the Appalachians came from Ireland. These are some of the gravestone markings I found near Pisgah Forest. I believe they are Ogham, a Celtic alphabet,” Mrs. Twiggs explained. “The letters are arranged in different orders to bring forth different spells. On headstones, they were used to help the dead cross over from one world to another.”

I glanced at Abigail, nodding in agreement and then told them, “The Ogham alphabet was used by the Druids. Many of the written incantations Elizabeth showed us were written in Ogham. My spirit tree, the ash, is a vertical line with five horizontal lines branching out to the right.”

Mrs. Twiggs flipped the page. I saw the symbols for the ash, the oak and the thorn. “These three are the symbols of what the Appalachians called the magic trinity. I found these drawings on Black Mountain.”

“Agatha Hollows,” I said.

Abigail looked at me. She knew of whom I spoke.

“Pixel tired.” Pixel came and flopped on the dining room table, rolled on his back once and then laid on his side. His eyes closed slowly, his tail slapping against the wood, his front paws kneading the air as though it were a feather pillow.

When the potion was finished, Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs looked at me. Abigail said, “Do we say something now? Hocus-pocus. Abracadabra.”

“You can if you want but it won’t do any good. Mrs. Twiggs just needs to drink it. If she’s a Wiccan, the potion will enter her bloodstream and open up her bloodline. Her blood knowledge is encrypted into her DNA. Think of it like an adrenaline shot to wake up her sleeping nucleotide.”

Abigail gave me a confused glance.

“I’ve been reading every book on genetics I could find for 300 years to find a way to turn back into my true self,” I said.

On Abigail’s direction, Mrs. Twiggs drank the potion. Pixel opened his eyes and reached a lazy paw toward the empty cookie tray. We sat and waited. Mrs. Twiggs cleared her throat. “I don’t feel anything.”

I knew it didn’t work because Mrs. Twiggs’ aura color did not change. It was sky blue, a beautiful color for a pure heart and old soul but Wiccans have two aura colors. Mrs. Twiggs looked at me. “It didn’t work, did it, Terra?”

I blinked twice for no.

“I’d like to try it,” a voice from the sitting room chimed in. We stared with surprise; we thought everyone else had left. Out from the dark corner, Mrs. Tangledwood stood, her gnarled hands reaching for the glass. She downed the potion before any of us could stop her. Within seconds, her back straightened, she dropped her cane, her white hair turned raven black, her milky eyes became clear blue sapphires, her aura color turned from gray to forest green and yellow.

“Emma,” Beatrice exclaimed. “What is happening?”

“I can see.” She did a short jig and danced around the table. Pixel jumped off the table and joined her.

“Emma, your hip, your bad knee?”

“I don’t feel a thing, Beatrice. I feel wonderful, better than I have in years.”

The Pumpkin Festival

The sun shone brightly over the garden at the Biltmore Estate. Pumpkins brought in from the local farmers lay across the wide green lawn. Mrs. Tangledwood dashed between the rows of stacked gourds like a Russian ballerina. Her turning had set her biological clock back at least 20 years. It was the most remarkable turn I had ever seen. “Emma, what have you done to your hair?” Mrs. Stickwood asked her.

“Do you like it?” Mrs. Tangledwood asked, reaching up and touching her now raven black curls.

“And your skin looks so smooth.”

“Yes, doesn’t it?”

“And, where’s your cane?”

“Caroline, it’s the most remarkable thing,” As Mrs. Tangledwood spoke, I hissed at her warning her not to reveal her secret. It was too soon for the others to know. For now she appeared to the others as Mrs. Tangledwood but as her powers grew she would continue to look younger.

Abigail unloaded the last of the pumpkins while Pixel rounded up field mice. Seeing Pixel sitting next to a pumpkin surrounded by mice made me think of the animated movie Cinderella. No pumpkins would turn into carriages tonight but there was definitely magic in the air. I could feel it swirling across the field, stirring in the trees like the last of the fall leaves floating to the ground, crunching underfoot. The rest of the Biltmore Society ladies arrived. To my horror, they were dressed like witches or what they thought witches should dress like, black cloaks, warts on noses and green face paint. They carried broomsticks and wore pointed hats. Abigail gave me a pointed look. I shook my head.

At least the pointed hats were correct. When a young witch wands, she is given a pointed hat that symbolizes the pyramid. The earth walkers, white witches, instructed the pharaohs on the construction of the pyramids, using the universal truth equation. The triangle. Ash, oak and thorn bind all the powers of the universe to form the eternal trinity of man, witch and nature. Yes, the hats are correct but I wouldn’t try flying on the brooms.

Mrs. Tangledwood greeted them. “You ladies look wonderful. I’ve assigned each of you a task. Mrs. Stickman and I will handle pumpkin sales, Mrs. Branchworthy will oversee concessions, Mrs. Bowers, you’re in charge of the haunted hayride and you, Beatrice, will handle the hay bale maze. Let’s make this a great day.”

Abigail and I followed Mrs. Twiggs to the right corner of the field where the volunteers were finishing construction of the hay bale maze. Over a thousand bales had been donated by local farms along with homemade scarecrows made by the 4-H Club. “Aren’t you going to change into your witch costume like the rest of the ladies?” Abigail asked.

“Oh, no, dear, I don’t feel right after what happened to Mrs. Tangledwood. I don’t want to tempt the fates,” she replied.

“Oh,” Abigail said. “How can I help? How does this whole thing work?”

Mrs. Twiggs pulled a folded piece of paper from her coat pocket. She unfolded it and placed it on a hay bale. “This is the plan for the maze. There’s only one way in but several ways to return.”

I jumped up next to the map and studied the hand-drawn sketch. It was quite detailed.

“Abigail, I can collect tickets. Do you want to see if one of the other ladies needs help?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

Abigail nodded. We took off, stopping at the concession stand for a fresh cider donut. “Mmmm, good,” Pixel said, climbing up Abigail’s leg for another bite. He had a sixth sense when it came to food. He appeared out of nowhere after we reached the donut stand. Surveying the grounds, I saw the crowds filtering in, many children wearing Halloween costumes. The sound of laughter trailed behind us as we reached the woods where families boarded the horse cart for the hayride.

I nuzzled up against the carthorse. He whinnied and lowered his head so I could rub against him. I had a special fondness for horses both as a young witch and as a cat. Mrs. Bowers sat on a bale of hay, accepting tickets as one of the volunteers helped customers into the cart. Holding the reins, the handsome young man fixed his gaze on Abigail. She pulled the collar of her leather jacket around her neck to hide her blush. She might be used to such looks but did not take comfort from them. Just the opposite. I nudged her toward the cart. The young man reached down his hand from his seat. “Hi, I’m Bryson. Do you want a ride?”

I pushed my head against Abigail who grabbed his hand and jumped up. She settled next to him. I sat next to Abigail. Pixel tumbled up, balancing next to me. Bryson jerked the reins, and we took off down the trail through the tunnel of trees, leading into Biltmore Forest. Makeshift ghosts and skeletons hung from trees, swaying in the breeze. A speaker hidden by shrubs played eerie music and scary laughter. “You never told me your name?” Bryson asked.

“It’s Abigail.” She smiled shyly, glancing down.

“I don’t recognize you from 4-H. Are you new?”

“I’m new to town.”

“Oh.”

“Where are you from? Visiting? Vacationing? Doing the world tour of pumpkin fests?” he grinned.

“I’m just passing through,” Abigail said, shifting further away on the seat.

Bryson thought for a moment. “If you’re still around in an hour, would you want to walk around the fest? Maybe get some cider?”

Abigail turned silent. I could see she was troubled by his affection. As we rode deeper into the woods, bouncing with every bump, giggles came up from behind us. Zombies appeared, approached us and the kids in the back of the cart screamed. Abigail clung to Bryson. Pixel growled. Bryson put his arm around Abigail, smiling. I knew she was safe with him. He was a watcher. I had spotted him earlier in the day. His aura light was the same as Lionel’s, strong and pure. I saw him watch over the children as he helped them climb into the cart. Know it or not Bryson was here to watch over Abigail.

The trail reached its apex and began its curve back toward the festival grounds. As we turned the corner, ghosts appeared from behind the trees. These were not volunteers and none of the riders saw them. I thought it ironic to have a haunted hayride in an actual haunted wood. Thankfully I alone could see the ghosts that clung to the Biltmore Estate, some workers killed during construction, others taken by illness. They watched peacefully as we trotted by. They were harmless souls. Abigail wiggled out from under Bryson’s arm as we returned to the open field. Happy hay-riders jumped off the cart, giggling and moving on to the next activity. “Can we meet up?” Bryson asked.

Abigail grabbed Bryson’s phone from his pocket, typed something in before handing it back. “Call me sometime,” she said, hopping off the buckboard. I looked behind watching Bryson watching Abigail walk away. We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the grounds and checking in with the Society ladies. We found Mrs. Tangledwood, wandering around the tables of the local jewelry artists. Abigail picked up a copper bracelet. After checking the price tag, she returned it. Mrs. Tangledwood was admiring herself in a tabletop mirror. She was trying on a silver chain that held a large almost emerald-green stone dangling. She turned to Abigail. “What do you think? It’s simple but elegant.” She said.

“Is that an emerald?” Abigail asked.

“Oh, no, it’s hiddenite.”

“Hiddenite?”

“Yes, it’s only found in Hiddenite, North Carolina. Hiddenite is not that far from here and the gem is more rare than emeralds. William Earl Hidden who was in the area searching for plutonium for Thomas Edison discovered it. Wearing hiddenite is supposed to encourage growth,” Mrs. Tangledwood said, fingering the stone. “That’s it. I’ve decided. I’m going to take it. After all, why shouldn’t I have nice things?” She negotiated a price with the jeweler.

When the sun was low in the sky, we returned to Mrs. Twiggs. On reaching the maze, Mrs. Twiggs was collecting tickets from the last customers.

“Oh, Abigail dear I’m glad you’re back. Would you mind taking my place for a few minutes? This is the last group.”

“Sure, Mrs. Twiggs.” Abigail sat on the hay bale. Mrs. Twiggs hurried off toward the concession stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a mouse scamper by, Pixel hot after it. I couldn’t resist the chase. I flew after Pixel and his prey. I lost track of time, my mind fixating on the mouse. My body betrays me or something confuses me. Why did I leave Abigail alone? I hurried back to the maze. She was gone.

I circled around the perimeter, calling to her. I climbed over a 10-foot wall of hay, searching for her. I saw movement in the heart of the maze, a wall shifting, closing in and then another and then another. I leapt to the ground and ran through the maze as walls closed in behind me, screaming out to Abigail. I could hear her screams muffled by the bales. I followed her voice until I reached the center of the maze where Abigail lay on the ground staring up at a scarecrow, its eyes glowing bright red as it leapt off its post. I stood in front of it, trying to block it from reaching Abigail. “Run, Abigail, run,” I commanded as I leapt onto the scarecrow and tore at its eyes, pulling out its stuffing. It fell to pieces around me. But then, all the pieces came to life, crawling along the ground like thousands of spiders until they came together to form the creature again.

Off in the distance, Abigail screamed and then she became silent. I ran from the scarecrow to find Bryson holding her in his arms. Abigail was hysterical, tears streaming down her face. “Are you OK? Abigail, are you OK?’ He asked her, keeping her close.

She caught a breath. “I. . . I.”

“You were lost. It’s easy to get lost in here. It’s dark, it’s big. It’s OK.” Bryson said, putting his arm around her shoulder.

“But,” Abigail said.

Bryson took her hand. “Let me lead you out.”

Abigail nodded. I followed them out of the maze, giving one last glance toward the scarecrow that was back up on his post, his eyes dull buttons.

Let it Bleed

I watched Abigail as she wandered around the vintage vinyl shop with Bryson, their shoulders touched as they flipped through the albums. Bryson gave her a crooked smile, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. He picked up an album. I sat quietly by the headphone rack where two young girls sat listening to tracks. I could hear Stevie Nicks through the headphones, singing “Rhiannon.” As always no one paid attention to me. I walked confidently, wanting to appear as if I belonged in the store. I listened in on their conversation, grateful Bryson was Abigail’s watcher.

“I’m so glad you called me.” He held up a Partridge Family album. “My Partridge Family collection was running dangerously low.” He smiled.

Abigail returned the smile. “About yesterday and the maze I let my imagination run wild. I think I was scared because I was lost in there.”

“No worries.” He picked up “Let it Bleed” by the Rolling Stones. “Have you ever heard this? This is a classic.” He took Abigail by the hand and walked her over to the listening station. He carefully took the album out of the cover and placed it on the phonograph. Then he crouched down and placed the stylus in the groove.

Abigail put the headphones on and started bobbing her head. I could hear the opening guitar strains of “Gimme Shelter.” Bryson tapped his foot along to Charlie Watts. Abigail’s smile disappeared, her eyes grew wide. She tore the headphones off and ran out from the store. After chasing her to where she collapsed in an alleyway, I rubbed against her and asked, “Abigail, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Gimme Shelter. That song.” Abigail paused, running her hands through her hair. “Terra, my parents were killed during Katrina. My mother was singing that song to us as we huddled on the roof of our house. I watched waters drag them away from me, my mother screaming my name as her hands reached out for me. All I can remember of her is that song and the fear in her eyes not for herself, but for her five-year-old daughter. She stuffed the pocket watch in my backpack. She told me it was a family heirloom. I have to get that watch back from the pawn shop.” Abigail paused. “My adopted parents never told me.” She rubbed her arm, scratching at her tattoo and the she knelt down and picked me up, cradling me. I rubbed my head softly against her hand, purring. I felt her 5-year-old child crying. “I can see their faces, Terra. It’s their voices in my head.”

Bryson appeared in the alley. “Abigail, what’s wrong?”

Abigail hugged him and kissed his cheek. “I'm sorry, Bryson, that song brought back some bad memories and I kind of freaked out.”

“I knew I should have played the Partridge Family instead.” Bryson laughed. Abigail smiled through her tears. “Are you hungry? How do you feel about Chinese?”

Abigail looked up into his eyes and nodded her head. They walked down the narrow cobblestone sidewalk to the Noodle Shop. It was unusually warm for an October day. Most of the patio tables were filled. Bryson whispered something to the young hipster waiter who then led them to a corner table overlooking the town square. I jumped up onto a chair next to Abigail against the wall hidden from view from the other customers. Bryson glanced down at me and smiled. He had not asked Abigail once, ‘what’s with the cat?’ His watcher’s intuition told him I was watching Abigail and that was enough for him to accept me.

After they poured the tea, Abigail asked, “ So, were you born here?”

Bryson peered over the menu at her. “Actually I was born in Fletcher. It’s about 15 minutes south of here. My family breeds horses.”

Abigail smiled. “Horses, that’s nice.”

The hipster waiter came over and took their order. He stared at me once and then at Bryson before walking away. A short while later, he returned with shumai dumplings stuffed with shrimp and chicken. Bryson grabbed his chopsticks, picked up the dumpling and dunked it in the sauce. Abigail fumbled with her sticks, dropping her dumpling several times. She looked up in frustration. Bryson smiled, lifted a dumpling up with his stick, dipped it and held it up for her. She took a bite and smiled. “It takes some time to get used to these things.”

Abigail picked up a fork and stabbed another dumpling. “How’d you find me in the maze?”

“What’s that?” he asked, finishing his third dumpling.

“The maze, you just showed up.”

“I was walking past and I heard screams.”

I could tell Abigail didn’t quite believe his answer. The festival was noisy. It would be very hard to hear any sounds behind hundreds of bales of hay. Lionel knew he was a watcher and that he had a purpose. It was in his bloodline but Bryson was very young. I could tell he didn’t quite understand what drew him to Abigail besides the fact she was a beautiful young girl.

Bryson sipped his tea. “I don’t know anything about you, Abigail.”

“Not much to tell. I’m from Chicago. At least that’s where my adoptive parents raised me.”

“What are you doing in Asheville?”

Abigail put her fork down. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know, Bryson.”

“There’s a band playing at the Orange Peel tonight. Friends of mine are roadies. If you think you might want to hang out, it’s all ages.”

Abigail smiled. “Yeah, I could use some normal in my life right now. That’d be cool.”

“How about I meet you outside at 9?” Bryson smiled back.

“Cool. See you then.”

The waiter brought the check. Bryson grabbed it quickly. “It’s on me.”

As they spoke, I looked over Bryson’s shoulder to the young woman sitting on the sidewalk bench in front of the tiny restaurant. She appeared out of place amongst the other young people walking up and down Pack Square dressed in tattered jeans and cardigan sweaters. She pulled a pocket watch from her frock, clicked it open as though to show me the time. Then she turned her head. I could see that half her face was burned away. The fur on my back stood up.

Transfixation

I stood outside the Orange Peel with Abigail who was shivering in the late fall evening air. The line grew longer as the hour grew later. There was no sign of Bryson. Abigail checked her phone. No message. She shook her leg impatiently, twisting her head left and right, standing on her tiptoes to look over the crowd. I meandered through her legs to calm her. Patience was not her virtue. After an hour or so, the line disappeared into the building. We could hear the opening band. Abigail leaned against the brick wall. “I don’t understand, Terra, this was his idea. Why would he blow me off?”

I did not think for a moment that Bryson stood her up on purpose. I could tell from the moment he saw her at the pumpkin fest that his life was intertwined with hers. I watched him watch her and knew almost nothing would keep him from seeing her tonight. I did not relay my worry to her. Abigail is a strong young woman but her strength would be tested. “Let’s go, Terra, I’m tired of waiting.”

Abigail pulled her collar up and headed at a steady pace down the crowded street.

We arrived at Mrs. Twiggs as she was getting ready for bed. She was gracious enough to allow Abigail and I to stay in a small room in the back of the shop. I felt safe at the Leaf & Page. The spirits that lingered there were kind and well meaning.

“You’re back earlier than I thought,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “How was the concert?”

“Bryson never showed.”

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. He seemed like such a nice boy.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Abigail said, taking off her boots and jacket and leaving them by the front door.

“Let me fix you some tea.” Mrs. Twiggs bustled toward the kitchen. We followed her.

I ran over to the fireplace where Pixel was sound asleep on his back, all four paws in the air. “Me hungry,” he murmured in his sleep.

Abigail sat in the leather wingback chair, rubbing her eyes with her hands. I leapt into her lap.

“Abigail, is that the only memory you have of your biological parents? The hurricane?” I asked.

“What? What’d you say, Terra?” Abigail asked, stroking my fur absentmindedly.

“You said the song ‘Gimme Shelter’ triggered that memory of the night you lost your parents.”

“I don’t know, Terra, I’ve heard ‘Gimme Shelter’ hundreds of times. I like the Stones. I don’t know why I remembered this time, I was holding Bryson’s hand and I felt, I don’t know, safe? And then it came to me.”

“Abigail, I’d like to try something with you tonight if you trust me.”

“What are you talking about, Terra?”

“Let me explain. Sometimes when you try to remember the simplest thing whether it’s a grocery list or the title of a book you read recently, it seems to slip your mind. The harder you try to remember the harder it is to pull back that memory.”

“I still don’t understand what you’re talking about, Terra.”

“If you stop trying to retrieve that memory sometimes it comes back by itself. By searching for it, you expend all your energy, you run down thousands of paths along your brain synapses. Think of it as RAM memory, limited. If you reach capacity Googling your memory, your processor locks up. You concentrate more on the process of trying to retrieve the memory than letting the memory appear. I’d like you to relax and clear your mind. Don’t think about anything. A clean slate.”

Mrs. Twiggs appeared holding a sliver tea service. “What are you two up to?” she asked seeing me staring eye to eye with Abigail. Pixel stirred at the sound of the rattling cookie tray and ran over to wind through Mrs. Twiggs’ feet, meowing softly.

“Terra wants me to clear my mind so I can retrieve some childhood memories.”

Mrs. Twiggs sat in the opposing chair. “Like hypnosis?” she asked, pouring the tea.

Abigail shrugged.

“What type of childhood memories?” Mrs. Twiggs asked, handing her a cup with a ladyfinger dangling off the saucer. Pixel lifted his paw and reached for the delicate cookie.

“Nothing I really want to talk about,” Abigail said.

“Oh, dear, I see.” Mrs. Twiggs thought for a moment. “Sometimes it’s better to face your demons. Bring them out into the light.”

I jerked my head back and stared at Mrs. Twiggs. There was more to her than I had yet realized. She understood that some shadow was blocking Abigail’s memories. Whether it was a Freudian self-defense mechanism or something much more malignant, I wanted to draw back the curtain. “What do you need me to do, Terra?” Abigail asked.

“Close your eyes and clear your mind.” I watched the moving pictures in Abigail’s head, events from this evening, the Chinese restaurant, and the pumpkin fest. She avoided thinking about the scarecrow. I could hear her heartbeat and breathing slow. I sang softly to her. Elizabeth had taught me the ancient art of transfixation, the ability to direct one’s thoughts down the pathways of your mind and to carry others with you. Elizabeth would come to me in my dreams by this means and we would converse in secret. This was the first time I ever tried this ability with anyone save Elizabeth. Elizabeth told me it began with the succession of high-pitched sounds. Pixel yowled softly before turning over and falling back to sleep. Like a safecracker clicking the tumblers slowly waiting to hear the catch of each gear, I listened for the right notes to open Abigail’s stored memories. These notes drew the listener in until two minds became one. I sang those notes softly to Abigail who followed me down the path until we were standing face to face not as cat to human but as my true self, 17-year-old Terra Rowan, the young witch of Salem. Abigail smiled widely and hugged me. “Terra, this is you. This is who you are.”

“Yes, Abigail. This is me.”

Abigail glanced around us. We were floating in a white mist. “Where are we? What’s happening?”

“This is what Elizabeth called clarity, the birthplace of all your thoughts.” As I spoke, the white mist turned pale gray.

“What’s happening, Terra?”

“You’re scared, Abigail. You don’t want to see the truth.” Lightning struck in the distance and the pale gray mist turned ashy black.

“Terra, I can’t do this.”

I took both her hands in mine. “Just follow me. Just follow me, Abigail.” As my words came out, I could feel her hands slipping from my grasp. She began floating away.

“Terra,” she screamed. Her voice echoing as she distanced away from me. I could not hold her. The hurricane was coming. She was gone. Her eyes flew open.

Mrs. Twiggs grabbed her hand. “Darling, you’re sweaty and breathing heavy. What’s going on?”

Abigail caught her breath. She shook her head, stood up and stretched. “Nothing. I’m going to bed. I’m tired.”

Me Familiar

We arrived home as the sun rose over the mountain. Mist covered the ground. We were weary. Pixel was draped over Abigail’s shoulder. In the foggy distance, I could make out the pale blue eyes of our tracker. The bacon was gone from our porch. He had left a present, a bundle of mountain ash sticks, rowan--he knew my name.

Soon, we sat on the porch, Abigail sipping her tea as I wrestled with Pixel. As hard as I fought my cat tendencies, they still managed to overtake me. Abigail watched intensely. “If you’re a witch, why can’t you use your powers to change yourself back?” Abigail asked me.

“It doesn’t work like that, Abigail,” I said, flipping Pixel onto his back. “The spell that turned me was cast from another witch, a very powerful witch, Elizabeth Oakhaven, the leader of our coven. And only she can break the spell,” I said.

“Why hasn’t she done that?”

“Elizabeth was killed during the Salem witch trials. All of my coven were tried and convicted and put to death.” I shuddered recalling the moment when Elizabeth’s neck snapped on the gallows.

“That’s why she turned you into a cat? To save you from the trials?”

I stared at her.

“I see,” Abigail said.

“Someone betrayed us. They told our secret. They took my sisters’ lives, my life and my future.”

Pixel flew back and forth across the porch, emitting loud noises. “Tracker, Tracker.” I had to hold back my instinct to chase him. “Pixel, quiet. I smell him, too. It’s OK.” Pixel settled down.

“Terra, something Mrs. Twiggs said at the Biltmore Society meeting has bothered me,” Abigail said in a musing tone. “She said that Asheville was the crossroads to the world. The same word that the voices in my head have been saying since I turned 13.”

I jumped onto Abigail’s lap to reveal the next part of the puzzle. “Lionel thought Asheville was his crossroad and I, too, was drawn here by some magic.”

“Why am I here, Terra? Why did I meet you? Why am I the only one who can understand you?”

“I don’t know. Only a witch or a turned Wiccan would be able to understand me in my current state.”

“I don’t feel like a witch.”

“What do you think witches feel like?” I asked sarcastically.

“You know--I twitch my nose but nothing happens, I blink my eyes—same nothing. When I was sweeping the cabin, I didn’t feel an urge to climb on top of the broom.”

I laughed. “Abigail, it’s not that easy. I have not met a witch in 300 years. There is something special about you but I would know if you were a witch.”

“How does Lionel play a part in all of this?” Abigail asked, settling back onto the porch step.

“That eludes me for now. There are different planes of magic in this world and others. Even mortals have unlocked magic without realizing it. Elizabeth told me of some humans who are called watchers. What we would call the human version of a familiar.”

“Like Pixel.” Pixel lifted his head. “Me Terra familiar.”

I thought for a moment, tilted my head and realized he was right. “Pixel, I haven’t quite thought of it that way but you might just be,” I said to him.

“Me familiar, me familiar,” Pixel chanted, prancing around the deck like he was royalty. His tail straight up in the air with his head turning left to right.

“Elizabeth’s familiar was a wolf. I never wanded so I was never given a familiar.” My thoughts returned to Lionel. Human watchers knowingly or not protect white witches. I believe Lionel was such a watcher. He didn’t know I was a witch but something inside him—maybe magic or kindness or the angels he sang of--made him keep watch over me and the other street folk.”

“The voices are getting stronger in my head,” Abigail said.

Abigail reached into the cooler that Mrs. Twiggs had packed for us full of vegetables from her garden, cheese and a mason jar of Mrs. Twiggs’ moonshine. Tea wasn’t the only refreshment served to the ladies at the Biltmore Society meetings. Abigail took a sip and shuddered. Pixel stood on Abigail’s lap to give it a sniff. His little sandpaper tongue slurped up a taste. “Me like, me like.” He stuck his head down and gulped it down before Abigail could pull it away from him. “Me like,” Pixel said, walking wobbly down the stairs of the porch, collapsing at the bottom, rolling back and forth on his back. “Pixel, sleepy.”

Abigail stepped off the porch, picked Pixel up and carried him sideways into the cabin. Pixel purred loudly and then he bit her arm. They settled onto the cot and both fell asleep. I watched them for a few moments before leaving and then I went back down into town to visit Reverend Stillwater’s church.

First Baptist Church

The First Baptist Church of Montford was built in the 1880s under the careful eye of Richard Sharpe Smith, the architect of the Biltmore house. Constructed from limestone left over from the Biltmore estate, it started as a small wooden church for freed slaves who originally settled on the grounds of what would become the estate. George Vanderbilt purchased the land from the pastor and the congregation with a promise to rebuild their church in the Montford area just outside downtown Asheville. Lionel’s great-grandfather was one of the freed slaves who helped build the new church, stone by stone. Lionel would take me there and touch the limestone. He said it had healing properties and gave him the ability to reach into the past to touch his great-grandfather who he had never met. I stared at the cornerstone, missing Lionel.

Reverend Stillwater’s family had traveled the Louisiana yellow fever trail in the 1880s from the same parish Lionel’s family had come from. Lionel had told me that is why he felt a connection to Reverend Stillwater. I hoped I might find something in the parish records about Lionel’s bloodlines. Somewhere in Lionel’s past was magic, and that magic brought about his death, I feared.

I crawled my way through the broken basement window and up to the Reverend’s office. He was there with the two detectives who had questioned Abigail. They were now questioning the Reverend. I slinked into a corner and listened.

“Reverend Stillwater, you say you saw Lionel the night of his murder?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Lionel stopped in early evening. I’d say maybe 5 o’clock before heading to the park. That’s not so unusual. He would stop by often.” The Reverend sat forward in his chair, clasping his hands on the old oak desk.

“What did you talk about?”

“Lionel was troubled for the past couple weeks. His dreams were troubled. You have to understand I care for a lot of the homeless. Many end up on the streets because of mental illness, but I don’t believe that was the case with Lionel.”

“What about these dreams?”

“Lionel told me he had a recurring dream of a young girl in trouble. The dream ended the same way with the girl hanging by her neck from an oak tree,” the Reverend said.

“I see,” the young detective said, scratching notes in his pad. “Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Lionel?”

After pausing for a minute, the Reverend shook his head. “Not at all. Everyone loved Lionel. You asked me all this already. Why are you really here?”

The young detective reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to the Reverend. “Do you know this man?”

The Reverend stared at the picture. “He looks like a kid.”

“Seventeen years old. His name was Bryson Wald.”

The Reverend shook his head.

The detective took back the photograph. “He was killed at 3 a.m. this morning, the exact same time of death as Lionel and with what we believe was the same knife, a silver knife.”

“That’s terrible. Did you say 3 a.m.?”

“Yes, according to the coroner.”

The Reverend scratched his beard and then said, “That’s the witching hour.”

“What do you mean?”

“Christ died at 3 p.m. The witching hour is directly opposite at 3 a.m.,” the Reverend paused.

“We’d like you to speak to the congregation and ask the homeless you work with. Anyone who might have known Lionel or Bryson,” the detective said, standing up. “We’ll have extra patrol in the area. One last thing.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and placed it in front of the Reverend. I could see it was a copy of Abigail’s driver’s license. “Do you know this girl?”

The Reverend shook his head.

“She’s homeless, been sleeping in her car. We found her name and phone number in Bryson’s phone.”

He looked at it again. “I have seen her. She was at Lionel’s funeral talking to Mrs. Twiggs,” the Reverend paused before continuing. “Do you think she had something to do with the murders?”

“For now she’s a person of interest but call immediately if you see or hear anything of her whereabouts.”

The Reverend took the detective’s card and nodded in agreement.

After the police officers left, Reverend Stillwater grabbed his Bible. I heard him reading the passage he read over Lionel’s funeral about the angels. I knew angels couldn’t protect us. They hadn’t protected us in Salem.

There are several ways to kill a witch, the Salem witch hunters were wrong about some. Drowning or hanging won’t kill a witch; they will only send her powers into a new vessel. Fire or silver through the heart will extinguish their life force. Whoever killed Lionel and Bryson knew, however, that both men were protected by magic and that they were watching over Abigail. If I am to save her, I must find out who killed them and why they want Abigail. For now, I needed to warn Abigail that the police were looking for her.

Dark Voices

I ran back to the Leaf & Page as quickly as my four little furry paws would advance me but I was too late. As I turned the corner, I saw the two detectives dragging a handcuffed Abigail out of the shop. She was kicking and screaming. Pixel was clawing at one of the detective’s legs and hissing. He shook him off causing Pixel to tumble down the crooked walk and crash into a garbage can. Mrs. Twiggs came out of the store, sobbing. “Wait, this is wrong. She had nothing to do with Lionel’s death.”

The detective ignored Mrs. Twiggs who put her arms around Abigail. “I’ll call my attorney. We’ll post bail.”

Abigail nodded her head and climbed into the back of the sedan. I ran up to her window. “Abigail, we’ll come for you. We will come for you,” I called to her. The car took off.

Mrs. Twiggs bent down and picked me up. Pixel ran up to her. She scooped him up also and hugged us both tightly. “I wish I could understand you,” she said, staring deep into my eyes. “Emma, We must get Emma.” Mrs. Twiggs carried us into the store and called Mrs. Tangledwood.

A short while later, a smoky quartz Bentley pulled up in front of the Leaf & Page, its window sticker still affixed to the passenger window. Mrs. Tangledwood leapt out of the car and flung open the front door. “Beatrice, this is outrageous. I’ve contacted my attorney. He’s meeting us at the police station.”

“Mrs. Tangledwood,” I said. “Abigail is not safe. We have to bring her home.”

Mrs. Tangledwood lifted me up. “Then let’s make that happen, shall we?”

Mrs. Twiggs grabbed her purple velvet coat and locked up the store. Pixel and I leapt into the back seat of the Bentley. When we arrived at the police station, I climbed into Mrs. Tangledwood’s Hermes Birkin bag. She peeked in at me. “Will you be OK?”

“I’ll be fine.” In my years, I had traveled in less comfortable and expensive ways. Her purse smelled of new leather. It was filled with many other different fragrances, a scented handkerchief, a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and the subtle scent of nettle leaves. Her heels clicked on the marble entry floor of the police station. There were muffled conversations. “Mr. Bridgestone, thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Of, course, Emma,” came the soft-spoken slow speech of a southern gentleman.

“This is my friend, Beatrice Twiggs. Beatrice, this is my long-time family attorney, William Bridgestone.”

“Nice to meet you. I spoke with the desk sergeant. Abigail is being detained for questioning in detention. She has not been charged yet.”

Mrs. Twiggs interrupted, “We have to get her out of here.”

As I listened to the conversation, a shadow passed over me. I’m not much for premonitions. That is not one of my powers but I knew Abigail would not last the night in this place. She was vulnerable without her companions around to protect her. “May we see her?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

“Yes, I’ve made arrangements.”

I followed the footsteps in my mind’s eyes, down the hallway, turning right and then left, stopping and hearing the clicking of the door, a female voice, a young officer who, I imagined, was speaking with the attorney. And then the door closed behind us. I could smell Abigail. I could smell her fear.

Mrs. Tangledwood put her purse on the floor. I leapt out and wrapped myself around Abigail’s leg. She scratched my head. “Be strong, Abigail,” I told her. Mrs. Tangledwood introduced Abigail to her attorney.

Mr. Bridgestone spoke, “The police have you in the vicinity the night of Lionel Foret’s murder behind the Leaf & Page. And they found your phone number in Bryson Wald’s phone.”

“What are you talking about?” Abigail asked.

Mrs. Twiggs placed her hand over her mouth. “Oh my, dear, they didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what? No one’s told me anything.” Abigail crossed her arms over her chest.

“Bryson Wald was found dead last night in the alley behind the Orange Peel,” Mr. Bridgestone said. “He was killed with the same weapon that was used to kill Lionel Foret.”

Abigail stopped breathing. “Be strong,” I told her again.

“Where were you last night?” The attorney asked.

“I was at the Orange Peel waiting for Bryson. He never showed up.”

“Have you told that to the police?”

“I haven’t said anything to them.”

Mr. Bridgestone cleared his throat.

Mrs. Twiggs said, “If she hasn’t been charged, they can’t keep her, can they? Can she go home?”

“They can hold her for 24 hours and then decide if she will be charged or not,” Mr. Bridgestone said. “There’s nothing I can do until they decide whether or not to charge her. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Abigail, listen to me very carefully. I’m going to stay with you tonight,” I spoke into her mind.

“Terra, how?”

“I want you to trust me and clear your mind tonight like we did together and meet me in the clarity. There I am as I was, and whatever powers I had as a witch are strong.”

“Terra, I can’t get there without you.”

“You can, Abigail, you’re capable of so much more than you know. Trust me. I will reach out to you.”

I stopped talking. I was afraid Abigail would hear the voices that were speaking to me, the dark voices that filled the small holding room, darting out from the corners, slithering from the shadows, hissing, “We’re coming for you, Abigail.”

I climbed back into Mrs. Tangledwood’s purse. The last words I left hanging in the air were, “Be strong, Abigail.”

A Free Spirit

I checked the clock over the cash register. It was nearly 9 p.m. Mrs. Twiggs was told that was when the lights were extinguished in the holding cells at the police station. I had tried for nearly an hour to reach out to Abigail without success. I felt her safe as long as the fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Not that those dark creatures couldn’t reach out in the light, but more because Abigail felt safer with the lights on. The unseen is always scarier than the seen and foul creatures prey more easily on the weak.

Mrs. Twiggs paced up and down in front of the cash register, mumbling to herself. Mrs. Tangledwood sat by the fire, reading a book, Pixel in her lap. “Terra, I’ve been reading something very interesting about transfixation. Actually that’s not what it’s called here, but I believe it’s the same principle.”

I leapt onto the back of her chair to see what she was reading. I was surprised to see it was written in Mandarin. “Oh, yes, Terra, I can speak and read several languages. This is an original copy of the philosopher’s Tse-uhe writing. Mrs. Twiggs found for me. He came to America during the railroad boom. He wrote journals about the Chinese laborers who came over to build the Trans-Pacific line. He was somewhat of a shaman to them . He practiced WH, the spirit medium of the ancient Chinese sorcerers. There’s an interesting passage here about a Chinese laborer who was caught in an avalanche of falling rocks while placing dynamite in a tunnel. He was buried alive for many days. Tse-uhe describes how he was able to communicate with the buried worker telepathically to help keep him alive. He used spirit bowls filled with different liquids. By rubbing his finger along the rim, he tuned in to find the right frequency to connect with the laborer’s spirit.”

“Mrs. Tangledwood, I’ve tried reaching Abigail. I was able to lock in her frequency when she was sitting across from me but I cannot reach out to her now. Something is blocking me,” I said.

“Tse-uhe had the same problem with the trapped man. The frequency could not penetrate through granite.”

A flash of understanding came across me. It was not the distance that was blocking my call to Abigail or the solid limestone walls of the jail. It was the voices I heard in the police station. They were screaming at Abigail, blocking her from hearing me. She couldn’t hear them when she was awake and the lights were on but they were there in her subconscious in the shadows. When the lights turn off, the boogieman under the bed becomes real. Her imagination would wander, drawing the voices in and then they would devour her.

I turned to Mrs. Tangledwood. “How did Tse-uhe reach the laborer?”

“He left his body and entered the trapped man’s body.”

I jumped off the back of the chair. Elizabeth had warned me to never attempt that level of transfixation. Leaving your consciousness was one level of transfixation, your spirit stayed in your body protected but transfixing your true light, what the humans call your spirit and leaving your body, left you unprotected. Like Elizabeth if my earthly body was destroyed I would be floating in the atmosphere, lost for eternity. Pixel jumped on my back. “What’s wrong, Terra? Terra, you scared. Pixel here. Pixel help Terra.” Uncontrollably I started licking the back of Pixel’s head, cleaning his fur. I didn’t even stop to think how disgusting that was. It seemed catlike.

“Pixel, I'm leaving for a little while.”

“Pixel, come too.” He sat not leaving me an argument.

“No, Pixel, you can’t follow me.”

“Pixel, go where Terra go. No more talk.”

“Pixel, I’m going to sleep for a while.” I stopped trying to figure out how to explain transfixation to Pixel. I began again. “I’m going to dream and visit Abigail and stay with her tonight but I need you to watch over me.”

“Pixel, no understand. You sleep, you here.”

“Pixel you have to promise me you will not leave my side while I sleep no matter what happens. OK? Can you do that for Terra?”

“I will not leave Terra.” Pixel lay on top of me. I closed my eyes. When we were young girls, seven or eight years old, Prudence and I borrowed Elizabeth’s book of spells, our girlish curiosity having gotten the better of us. We stole away into the woods on a summer afternoon pretending we were one of the old ones, the great witches who once walked the earth. We sat for hours, staring at the book too afraid to open it. It was Prudence who finally found the courage. As she unsnapped the clasp, the book flipped like a zoetrope giving the illustrations the illusion of motion. The pages stopped on a chapter titled Transfixation. We huddled together, holding hands and read the incantation out loud. Before we could finish we felt our bodies being lifted off the ground--being pulled by our hair by Elizabeth. “Prudence, Terra, you wicked girls.” She scooped up the book and never said another word about it.

As Pixel kept watch, I recited that incantation and then I left my body behind.

Windows to the Soul

I stood in the shadows, the mist flickering around me, engulfing me. Memories swirled around me, some were my own, some belonged to others. A familiar voice whispered, “Terra.” Elizabeth appeared in the mist. She hugged me and then pulled back. “You wicked girl. What have you done?” she scolded me.

“Elizabeth, I’ve searched for you for more than 300 years.”

“I’ve always been with you, Terra.”

“Is this real, Elizabeth? Are you real?”

“The world you left behind with your body is the dream. This is reality. This is as it was and as it will be.”

“Elizabeth, I have so many questions for you. Please tell me how can I turn back into my former self?”

Elizabeth flickered and pixelated. “Terra, it’s coming.” And then she was gone.

I found myself in Abigail’s cell. The fluorescent lights flickered before extinguishing. The hissing shadows turned into screams. Abigail sat curled up on the corner of her cot, huddled inside a blanket, rocking back and forth, her hands covering her ears. Elizabeth had once told me the eyes are the windows to the soul, I believed that phrase meant we are what we see but there is more to it. The ancient Egyptians placed gold coins on the eyelids of the dead to pay the ferryman who would lead them across the river Styx but also to keep lost souls from entering and reanimating the body. “I am with you,” I screamed above the voices to Abigail.

She opened her eyes. She saw my true light and took it into her body. “Terra, I can feel you inside me.”

“I’m here to protect you, Abigail. Don’t be afraid. Be strong.”

“The screams, Terra, they’re maddening. Make them stop. Make them stop.”

I could feel tentacles and talons scraping at our body. Flesh tearing. I raised Abigail’s hands. Through her, I was a witch again. I screamed. “Darkness fear the light. I am Terra Rowan.”

A bright light exploded from Abigail’s fingertips. Distorted creatures screamed in agony and slithered into the crevices hidden within the walls. “Rest now, Abigail. I will keep watch. You are safe.” I could feel our body was exhausted. She lay down. I sang to her until she fell asleep. I kept one eye open.

“Terra, breathe, Terra.”

I sat upright, gasping air. My heart began beating again.

“Terra, dead. Terra, dead.” Pixel’s voice filled my ears and then he licked me frantically on my head.

I blinked my eyes. “Where am I, Pixel?”

“Terra, bad things. Hurt Terra.”

I glanced around. It took me a minute to recognize my surroundings. We were in the alley behind the Leaf & Page, hidden behind the dumpster. I shook my head. “How’d we get here?”

“Terra, me pull Terra. Me save you.”

“Save me from what?”

“Inside dark.” Pixel stuttered.

“You OK, Pixel?”

“It comes. Take you.”

I tried looking inside Pixel’s mind but I could not pierce the veil. Instead I hugged him. “Thank you, Pixel.”

“Me hungry.” He jumped off the garbage cans onto the kitchen windowsill and scratched the pane. Mrs. Twiggs flew open the window.

“What are you two doing out there? Come on in and eat before we open.” She let us in the back door. Pixel wandered through her legs, meowing softly. I heard him chanting, “Bacon. Bacon. Bacon.” Seemingly to understand him, Mrs. Twiggs placed a plate of steaming bacon on the floor. I, too, was ravenous. My body had taken quite a shock. As we ate, I watched Mrs. Twiggs wind the cuckoo clock above the cash register and whisper good morning to her picture of Albert.

“My, look at the time,” she said then flipped the sign from closed to open. Mrs. Tangledwood came down the stairs.

“I just spoke to Mr. Bridgestone. They’re going to release Abigail today. They don’t have any evidence to charge her,” she said.

Abigail’s Release

Pixel and I waited outside the police station. My head pounded. All my joints were on fire. It was the first time in my life as either a witch or a cat that I felt the effects of age. Leaving my body had spent my life source. I would never be the same.

It was lunchtime and the square was bustling with traffic. Cars circled searching for elusive parking spaces, people streamed by on their way to one of the many downtown eateries. Pixel and I stood by the statue of George Vanderbilt across from the police station. My head felt fuzzy. I felt as though I was drifting between two worlds. Something that Elizabeth said still bothered me, that this world was the dream and the other reality. I couldn’t imagine what she meant.

Mrs. Tangledwood flung open the door followed by Mrs. Twiggs and a disheveled Abigail. She was pale white. She, too, was spent from the night. She walked past me and climbed into Mrs. Tangledwood’s Bentley without acknowledging me. I was confused. Why was she ignoring me? Mrs. Twiggs opened the back door to let Pixel and I in. Then she climbed in beside us. We all rode in silence until Mrs. Twiggs found her voice.

“I’ve fixed a room for you over the store until you feel better.”

“I want to get out of this city,” Abigail said, her arms wrapped around herself.

Abigail gave Mrs. Tangledwood directions to the cabin, as no GPS of this world could lead us there. The dirt road up the side of Black Mountain is a treacherous route by car. At times the narrow path was only as wide as the width of the Bentley’s axles. A sheer drop a hundred feet into the gulley kept unwanted visitors away and magic kept away the rest. We reached the stream, the Bentley came to a dead stop.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Twiggs asked from the back seat.

“The stream is swollen. The road is washed out,” Abigail said.

I jumped up onto the headrest to see for myself, it was as Abigail said, no way to pass. It had not rained in days and we had easily traversed the shallow stream that circled the cabin just a few nights ago.

“I can walk from here,” Abigail said as she opened the door and walked toward the water.

Mrs. Tangledwood looked over her shoulder at me. I then whispered in her ear, “Tomorrow night,” which she understood. “She’ll be fine. Thank you for the ride,” I said.

Pixel and I caught up to Abigail who was sitting on a log near the water’s edge. I could hear the Bentley’s tires kicking up stones as it headed back down the mountain. Abigail stood up and walked into the water or onto the water. Her boots glided along the top of the fast moving stream, never dipping beneath the surface. I looked down to the bottom, it was nearly 4 or maybe 5 feet deep. Pixel dove in. His belly bounced off the tips of the white caps and then he was upright and walking on water next to Abigail. I followed. We reached the cabin at twilight, exhausted. Abigail fell onto the cot and covered herself. Pixel looked at me with sad eyes, “Terra, me worried.”

“Sleep, Pixel, I’ll keep watch.”

Tracker

“Me scared, Terra gone, Me scared,” Pixel’s cries reached my ears as I crossed the stream back to our cabin. The minute he saw me, he ran knocking me over and biting my neck. He knocked the squirming trout out of my mouth. “You home. You home.”

“Pixel, I just went to find food,” I told him.

“Abigail no feel good.”

“Yes, I know. Pixel I’m going to need your help,” I said, pushing him off me.

“Me help?”

“Yes, we’re having a gathering tonight.”

“Party?” Pixel asked.

“Sort of.”

“Cookies?”

“Yes, like at Mrs. Twiggs, a gathering of the Biltmore ladies.”

“Smell funny,” Pixel said.

“Yes, the ladies with the perfume.”

“Pixel no like.”

“Pixel, this is very important. We need the ladies to help us with Abigail. I’m counting on you.”

“Me familiar.”

“Yes, Pixel, you’re my familiar and I trust you.”

“Pixel love Terra.”

“Thank you, Pixel,” I told him as we approached the cabin.

Abigail came outside, stretching and yawning. “Where have you been? Pixel has been yelling and grunting all morning.”

“You need to eat. You need to regain your strength,” I told her. “Mrs. Tangledwood is calling a special meeting of the Biltmore Society. They’re coming to the cabin tonight.”

“Why the cabin?” Abigail asked.

“There’s no time for me to discern which of the ladies, if any, are Wiccans and whether they have white or black magic. If they carry black magic, I will need to be prepared to control them.”

“How do you plan on doing that?”

“Agatha Hollows taught me how to control black Wiccans. The mountain folk thought they were possessed or crazy but Agatha knew the truth and knew how to take their power.” I thought for a moment. “We better prepare. First we gather the necessary herbs and plants. Once the Wiccans’ powers awake--if they are dark powers--they will want to hide from us. We must see through their disguise.”

“I thought you told me that I was the first human you’ve spoken to since turning into a cat.”

“I never said Agatha Hollows was human.”

Abigail became silent.

“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

“No, I don’t.” Abigail donned her boots and stepped off the porch. I led her around back to the remains of Agatha Hollows’ herb and flower garden. While all her plantings were overgrown, they were still useful.

“That one.” I held a paw up to a tall purple foxglove.

“Foxglove are poisonous,” Abigail said.

“Not if used properly. You need a very small amount to help wake the Wiccan blood,” I told Abigail.

Using gardening shears, she snipped off a few flowers and placed them in the basket she had draped over her arm. We continued walking through the garden.

I pulled out some St. John’s Wort. “What’s this for?” Abigail asked.

“St. John’s Wort contains hypericin. It’s a photosensitory substance that reacts with light. In some people, it causes skin burns but in black Wiccans it hyper reacts causing extreme burns. Darkness hides from the light.”

“OK.” Abigail shrugged.

Pixel scampered about, chasing butterflies throughout the garden. “Me happy. Me happy,” he chanted.

I pointed to a patch of light blue flowers. “These are called Indian tobacco. When ground into a powder, humans use this plant to help with respiratory problems. Agatha Hollows used it to help the mountain folk with bronchitis and bad colds. In our potion, it helps open up the lungs to make sure that the person drinking it has a lot of red blood vessels pumping through their system. It helps activate their Wiccan DNA.”

A scream rang out through the field. I turned to see Pixel sitting upright, the tracker standing over him, his teeth bared. I was wrong about him and my mistake could cost Pixel his life. I ran as fast as I could but before I could pounce on the tracker, the rattlesnake, he was protecting Pixel from lunged and bit the puppy. He yelped and ran toward the stream. I grabbed the snake by the back of its head but before I could kill it Abigail pulled a knife from her boot and cut its head off. Pixel cried, “Tracker, good, Tracker, good. Help Tracker.”

Abigail and I followed the path Tracker had laid down in the tall brush. We followed him for miles until finally we found him lying down, covered in mud on the bank of the French Broad River. He had known that the mud would help extract some of the venom. Abigail bent over the small puppy. His breath was shallow, his tongue hanging out. “I have to get him to the vet,” she said, gathering him in her arms.

“There’s no time for that. Reach in your basket and take out the mayapple. Crush it and put it on his wound. Witches use mayapple for poison. They call it witches’ umbrella. Agatha Hollows told me the Cherokee used it to treat snakebites.”

Abigail followed my instructions. The puppy lifted his head and licked her hand. He stood up, his long legs ungainly under his oversized paws. This pup couldn’t be more than a few months old. “This stuff is remarkable.”

“It’s not the mayapple. It doesn’t work that quickly and honestly I was only trying to slow the venom so we could get him to the doctor. It’s you. You did this.” I stared at her with a newfound respect and fear. She was more powerful than I had thought. Even Elizabeth would have needed a stronger potion to save this dog.

Abigail washed the puppy with the river water, scooped him up and carried him back to the cabin. Pixel was waiting on the porch. “Tracker, Tracker,” he exclaimed, circling around Abigail.

While the puppy could not be more than six months old, he was at least a good 40 pounds. Recognizing his mottled fur, I realized I’d seen this breed before. Agatha Hollows raised what she called Australian shepherds, she said because they were the smartest of the dog creatures. She trained them to pick herbs and medicine sticks and to protect the cabin. After she died, the remaining dogs took off into the wild. I knew this puppy was from their bloodline because of his russet red coat and his brilliant blue eyes. Ghost eyes, Agatha Hollows had called them. They kept their distance from me and I from them but I did admire their intelligence. Unlike some of the dogs I’ve met over the past 300 years, these dogs had no problem understanding and accepting me although it did bother me the way they stared deep into my soul. This puppy was the last of his bloodline. For that he deserved to live.

Abigail was in the rocking chair, cradling the puppy and singing softly. Pixel grabbed a piece of beef jerky out of Abigail’s backpack and presented it to the tracker. “Me friend, Tracker me friend.” The tracker licked Pixel’s head before nibbling at his ear. Pixel giggled and fell on his back laughing. “Terra, you know this dog, don’t you?” Abigail asked.

“I’ve never seen him but I’ve felt his presence.”

“When was that?”

“The first night I brought you here. I thought he was tracking me but he must have been tracking you.”

Abigail studied the dog that was now sound asleep on her lap. “Tracker, that’s what I will call you. Tracker,” she said.

“Tracker, Tracker, Tracker,” Pixel sang triumphantly, dancing around in circles before doing a somersault on the floor.

“We have to finish before the ladies get here,” I said.

A car pulled up onto the long dirt path. Mrs. Tangledwood leapt out, ran around to the passenger side to help Mrs. Twiggs. Mrs. Tangledwood looked even younger than when I had seen her the day before. Her power was growing. She would be our greatest weapon against the gathering storm. I greeted them on the porch. “Terra, I’ve brought the herbs and teas for the turning just like we made at the Leaf & Page,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “And this.” She pulled out a silver carving knife.

Abigail stepped up behind us. “What’s that for?”

“Just in case,” I told her.

I felt bad for Mrs. Twiggs. I wished the potion had worked for her. Out of all the people I’ve met during my long life, I trusted her most. There was a kindness in her, a selflessness that would not allow her to be anything but a good person. But for now I needed magic. We worked quickly into the early evening. “Abigail, how did you come across this cabin?” Mrs. Tangledwood asked.

“Terra brought me here.”

“It’s interesting. I am on the board of the Asheville Historical Museum. I’ve never seen any mention of this cabin.”

“Terra told me the woman who lived here was a mountain medicine woman during the Civil War.”

“I’d love to get more information on the woman who lived here for the museum.”

Agatha Hollows never told me where she came from or who she was. She could understand me but never wanted to talk. I knew her true self. She was a Cherokee medicine woman, a descendant of the old ones. She wore a tear dress like the ones worn by the Cherokee women driven out of North Carolina on the trail of tears. She came to Black Mountain to escape the soldiers when the Civil War broke out. She enchanted the cabin so it could only be found if it wished to be found. I spoke to the cabin in Cherokee, asking her to let the ladies find her. A deep sigh released from her walls. Agatha was wont to keep visitors away.

Abigail lit a fire as the sun melted behind the mountain ridge. Tracker stayed glued to her side following her every movement, walking between her legs as she walked. His light blue eyes constantly gazing up at her. I could tell Pixel was a bit jealous. He tried to climb up her leg. Tracker pushed him out of the way.

“Abigail, whose dog is this?” Mrs. Tangledwood asked, stepping away from Tracker.

“He’s a stray who I’ve been feeding,” Abigail said, petting Tracker’s head.

Mrs. Tangledwood reached down to rub Tracker’s ears but he backed away. “Terra,” Mrs. Tangledwood said. “When I turned I felt a great energy being released within me. I felt limitless. Will the ladies feel the same way? Will they be as powerful as me?”

“Each Wiccan will have their own special powers but it’s up to you to develop them, to make them stronger,” Terra said.

“How do I do that?”

“By learning spells, sharpening your skills, understanding your abilities.”

“I don’t know what my abilities are.”

I could see Mrs. Tangledwood’s aura glowing around her in bright shades of green. She had the power of rejuvenation, not just for herself but for anything she willed. I was still uncertain if I should share this knowledge with her. It might be better that she discovered it herself. Mrs. Tangledwood picked up some twigs for the fire as she did tiny buds sprouted on the branches, turning into leaves. She stood and stared in awe and then dropped the branches.

We all stood staring at them as cars pulled up the path. Pixel ran to the porch, exclaiming, “They here.”

Tracker let out a low puppy growl and lay down on Abigail’s feet, protecting her already.

I turned to my companions and said, “Whatever happens here tonight has to stay here in this cabin.” Abigail understood what I meant. Behind her back, I could see the glint of the silver knife. We couldn’t unleash a black Wiccan into the world and into my Asheville.

Tracker growled and leapt up to the front window. Abigail stood next to him, petting his head, whispering in his ear. He lay down. Agatha Hollows had placed enchantments on the gnarled bristlecone pines that lined the path from the stream to the cabin. Their strong arms outstretched crisscrossing barring entrance. Tracker had heard what Pixel and I heard. The cracking of the limbs as they gave way to the ladies of the Biltmore Society.

Mrs. Twiggs stood on the porch, greeting each lady as they came up the steps, each asking about the purpose of the meeting. Mrs. Twiggs had been very careful not to give it away. Mrs. Tangledwood stood in the kitchen finishing the potion, her back to the room. When she turned around, they stopped dead, gasping at the sight of her. They turned to each other, mumbling in disbelief. “It’s me, Emma,” Mrs. Tangledwood said.

“Emma, that can’t be you. You’re beautiful,” Mrs. Stickman stuttered. “What’s going on here?” She turned to Mrs. Twiggs.

“The reason we invited you here: Emma is a Wiccan and her powers have been awakened. We have reason to believe that the ladies of the Biltmore Society were brought together by powers we don’t yet understand. Tonight we’re going to attempt to awaken those powers,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

“What about you, Beatrice? You haven’t changed at all.”

“That’s because I’m not a Wiccan. I believe it’s because I wasn’t born in Biltmore Forest. You and your lineage go back hundreds of year to this land. That bloodline is where your powers lie.”

“What do we have to do?” Mrs. Stickman asked.

“Find a chair in the circle.” As the ladies took their places, Tracker walked by each one sniffing, peering into their souls with his ghost blue eyes. He finally settled down in the corner by the wood stove. I stepped into the middle of the circle.

“So, it is true, the cat can communicate,” Mrs. Stickman said.

“I can understand her now. She’s a witch. She wants you to drink the same potion that I drank,” Mrs. Tangledwood told them, standing next to me.

Abigail came in from the kitchen, carrying a tea service. She placed it on the small table in the center of the circle. She poured seven cups. Mrs. Stickman stared. “That’s it. We drink the tea and we all become Wiccans?” she asked. “Is it dangerous?”

I turned and faced them, shaking my head no. She smiled back.

I have to say that I relayed a bit of a half-truth because it was not the same potion that Mrs. Twiggs and Mrs. Tangledwood drank. This one was poison to a black Wiccan. No matter the outcome, Abigail would make sure that if there were a black Wiccan, she wouldn’t leave this cabin.

“Any magic words?” Mrs. Stickman asked.

I shook my head again. Abigail sat down in the rocker by the hearth, Tracker at her feet. She picked up her guitar and strummed it softly to calm her nerves. Though by some lost instinct or memory she played the song -- my coven’s song. The room began to spin. The faces around me melted like paraffin wax into puddles as the voices returned in my head. I thought at first they had drunk the tea and all were found to be black Wiccans, but then I heard Elizabeth’s voice.

“Terra, put the lantern out,” she told me, stepping back from the barn door as I opened it.

“But Elizabeth.”

“Terra, now and close the door.”

I did as she commanded. The full moon filtered in through the slats of the barn. Elizabeth stood in the shadows.

“What’s wrong, Elizabeth?” I asked. “You’re scaring me.”

She walked into the slivers of moonlight. Her condition gave her away, the swelling of her belly answered my question. “Terra, I’m with child. With Jonathan Goodall’s child.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, no.”

She took my hand and placed it on her belly. I could feel her daughter kick. Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, it is a girl. I love Jonathan, Terra.”

“Does he know?”

“I can no longer keep it hidden. The time has come and we must leave town. We plan to leave tonight.”

“Elizabeth, how will you survive? Where will you go?”

“Jonathan has confidants in the French colony of La Louisiane.”

“That’s the wilderness. It’s so far away.”

“It has to be this way. I need you, my dear Terra.” Elizabeth took both my hands in hers. “To lead the coven.”

“Me? I’m not ready. I haven’t wanded yet.”

“Terra, you’re the only one I trust. You have to do this.” She doubled over in pain, clutching her stomach.

“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?”

“The hour grows near.” She clenched my hand, her fingers cutting off the circulation in mine. Elizabeth’s familiar howled in the distance. She ran to the window, peeking out. She reached in the pocket of her cape and placed something in the palm of my hand and closed it around. “Terra, take this.”

“What is it? What is it, Elizabeth?”

“It’s a chance for new life if anything happens to me.” The howl grew louder and with it human voices sounded in the distance. Elizabeth looked out the window again; I stood behind her and saw the flickering of lanterns coming out of the woods toward the farm. She grasped her belly, wincing in pain.

“Elizabeth,” I called out again.

She reached in the hope chest, rifling through its contents. She turned, her face pale white. “Terra, it’s gone.”

“What’s gone, Elizabeth?”

“The book.” Her eyes rolled back into her head. She began to faint. I caught her and laid her onto the hay. She screamed in pain. “Terra, something’s wrong. The baby’s coming.”

“Elizabeth, I’ll fetch the midwife.” I darted toward the door.

Elizabeth pulled me back. “No, no one must know. You can do this, Terra.”

I grabbed a horse blanket and covered Elizabeth. She stifled her screams. With my eyes almost closed, my heart pounding, I looked under her dress. Through the faint glow of the lantern, I could see the baby’s head. Moments later I held her daughter as I cut her birth cord. I wrapped the baby in a cloth torn from my petticoat and placed her on Elizabeth’s chest.

“She’s beautiful, Elizabeth,” I said as the baby cried softly.

Elizabeth smiled. In the distance, her familiar howled again. This time the voices sounded nearer. “We don’t have much time. Our secret’s been told, Terra. Black magic is gathering in the woods. Our hour is late. If you don’t control it, it will control you. Find the book before it finds you, Terra. Save the coven,” Elizabeth said. I ran to the window. I could see the lanterns were coming closer. The barn door burst open. I grabbed for a pitchfork. The silhouette of a man stood in the doorway. Jonathan Goodall ran to Elizabeth’s side and embraced her. He stared down at his daughter. “Take her, Jonathan, before they do,” Elizabeth said.

“Elizabeth, come with us,” he said, smoothing Elizabeth’s sweat stained hair.

“I’m too weak. They’re too close. Just take her. I’ll come to you,” Elizabeth gasped out. She reached around her neck, releasing the clasp on her amulet. She placed it in his hand and drew him close, whispering in his ear. She kissed him passionately.

Jonathan wrapped the baby in his cloak, brushed her cheek and kissed her.

“Guard our daughter, Jonathan, keep her safe,” Elizabeth gasped out.

Jonathan ran to the door, gave one last glance at Elizabeth and disappeared into the darkness, protecting his precious bundle.

I gazed out the window. I could now see the faces of the angry townspeople. “Elizabeth, we have to go. We have to hide.”

“You can hide from the humans but not from it. Run, Terra, run,” she told me.

“Not without you, Elizabeth. Come with me.”

“There’s no time. You must run to save our coven.”

With one last glance at Elizabeth, I stepped out of the barn, careful to gaze all around me, making sure no one saw me. I hoped to move among the shadows but the full moon gave me away. I ran into the woods, tripping over a fallen branch. Around me the bushes shook. I screamed then covered my mouth and ran towards the ocean.

“Terra, Terra,” I heard Abigail’s voice and then I heard Mrs. Stickman and then I heard Mrs. Bowers. They were all there in my head, standing over me. I opened my eyes and saw the seven had turned to white Wiccans. I closed my eyes again, my head pounded. I reopened my eyes to see the faces of the once elderly ladies of the Biltmore Society. Gray hair turned obsidian black, wrinkled skin now smooth and rosy cheeked. The years had been erased away. The telltale sign of a true Wiccan, their irises flashed traces of fire red in their excitement. Their chattering voices echoed in my head.

“Settle down, ladies. This is the beginning,” Mrs. Tangledwood said. “We’ve got a lot to learn and a short time to learn it. Terra tells me there is black magic descending on Asheville, and she needs our help to find and destroy it.”

Mrs. Stickman half listened as she admired her hands. What were once gnarled and arthritic were supple and strong. She lifted the teakettle and glanced at her reflection in the polished copper. “I’m beautiful,” she said with a smile. “I haven’t looked this good since my 40s. In fact I don't think I looked this good in my 40s. I feel so alive.”

“What you’re seeing is your true self and because you believe this is how you should look others see you that way. Understand it is somewhat of an illusion. You are still the same woman you were before,” I told her.

“Does that mean we’re going to change back? We’re going to age again?” Mrs. Stickman asked, setting down the teakettle.

“As long as you accept your true self and believe you look this way you will stay as you are now.”

“What about our powers? I feel like I can do anything,” Mrs. Bowers said.

“I can help you develop your individual strengths. For now you must rest. The turning spends your health. Go home, get a good night’s sleep and we’ll begin your training in the morrow.”

Mrs. Twiggs handed each lady a stone on a leather string. “This is blue chalcedony. It’s found throughout the mountains here. It will protect you against black magic.”

“Where did you get these?” Mrs. Stickman asked.

“The woman who owned this cabin had them buried in the backyard. Terra told us where to find them.”

The ladies each examined their new talisman as Mrs. Twiggs walked them out of the cabin. I heard Mrs. Stickman whisper, “When do we get our brooms?” I realized they have a lot to learn.

Lifting the Veil

I woke before the others. Tracker was cuddled up with Abigail on the cot. Pixel lay next to the smoldering fire, kicking his paws in a dream. “Shiny, shiny knife. No, no hurt, no hurt Pixel.”

“Pixel, are you OK?” I nudged him awake, licking his ear.

Pixel’s orange saucer eyes popped wide open. “Bad. Bad, Terra.”

“Pixel, what did you remember?”

I could see the fading remnants of his dream still lingering in his eyes. It was the alley where Lionel was killed and the shadow of a figure turning into the walkway. I saw the moon’s reflection in the silver knife the killer held. “It’s OK, Pixel, it’s just a dream.”

“Bad dream,” Pixel said, nuzzling up against me.

And then the vision was gone. Pixel was back. “Me hungry, me hungry.”

“Let’s go catch breakfast, Pixel.”

Tracker’s head lifted from the bed as we exited the cabin. He started to follow us then turned to glance at Abigail. I looked over my shoulder, gave him a glance which he understood to mean protect her, keep watch. He let out a low growl and then lay back down. “Terra, fish,” Pixel said as we stepped off the porch.

“Yes, Pixel, we’ll catch some fish for breakfast. First I want to show you something.” I headed to the far end of Agatha Hollows’ land where she used to dig up ginseng. She had told me of its ability to restore memory especially when black magic was fogging the mind as she called it. “Pixel, I want you to smell along the ground here.”

“Me smell. What me smell for?”

“It’s called ginseng. It’s a root.”

“It smell like?”

“It will have a dirty, earthy smell and a spicy smell.”

“Me no like spice.”

I dug up a small piece of ginseng. “Smell this, Pixel.”

“Mm, me eat?” Pixel said.

“Pixel, this will help you remember what happened in the alley.”

“No, bad.” Pixel stepped back.

“Pixel, it’s safe.” I knew from my years with Agatha that the herbs and roots in these mountains have a frequency that matches any ailment. Agatha Hollows taught me many remedies using these herbs. In Pixel’s case, it’s the shadow over his memory. I knew that Pixel wound not understand so I commanded him, “Pixel, eat.”

Pixel jumped back, away from the root. “No, no, Pixel, no like. Pixel no like ginseng.”

“Pixel you have to trust me. You’re my familiar. You have to do what I say.”

“Pixel familiar.”

“Yes.”

“Me trust Terra.”

“Nibble a little on the root. Not too much.” I pushed it toward him with my paw.

Pixel reluctantly took a bite and swallowed hard. “No, good. No taste good.”

“Pixel, something is keeping you from remembering that night. I can’t identify what kind of black magic is blocking your memory and for that reason I can’t reverse it. I need you to help me now, OK?”

“Terra, yes.”

“I don’t want you to think about that night. Instead I want you to think about your favorite things. Concentrate very, very hard. Let the bad magic follow those thoughts. OK, can you do that for Terra?”

Pixel formed images in his head, most were of food, but there was one of me, then of Mrs. Twiggs followed by Abigail followed by Tracker. As he concentrated on those images like a vacuum sucking the air out of his head, I could see the dark shadows follow, engulfing those images, strangling the light out of them. As they did, I could see behind them into what they were hiding. I could see the silver blade plunging into Lionel’s chest. His eyes bulging from the pain. I could see Lionel’s deep midnight blue aura light fading like a vapor trail. I could not see his killer. It hurt my head to even try. Its shape had no form, just a constantly moving mass of darkness. It was like looking through a Vaseline-covered lens. The apparition turned and looked right at me. It knew I was looking at it. I could see the outline of a black hood and a storm cloud forming where a face should be. Particles flew around in a cyclone trying to pull together the face but remained fragmentary.

“Run, Terra, run,” Elizabeth’s voice echoed in my head. I stood still for a moment, watching her, hesitant. “Run, Terra,” she repeated more urgently. I raced across the field. I felt someone watching me from behind the trees. I couldn’t make anything out through the dark. The darkness hid the shadow that followed me. I stopped for a moment, stranded between vision and memory. It was there the night Elizabeth gave birth. All I could make out was the black cape and the sheen of silver. I realized that the black magic was watching my memories, it was part of my memory.

I shuddered as Pixel moaned. It brought me back to his vision. The dark figure held a blade pointing up at me. My blood went cold. My breath left me. My heart stopped. The black magic was reaching out to me, pulling me back into the shadows. I couldn’t look any longer.

“Terra, eat now. Me hungry.”

“What? What’d you say, Pixel?” I shook my head, falling to the ground.

Pixel jumped on top of me, biting my neck. “No play now, we eat. Pixel hungry.”

“Yes, Pixel. Let’s go get breakfast.” I shook off my vision and followed Pixel as he scampered along to the stream.

On the way he singsonged, “Hungry, hungry, Pixel, hungry,” on his way.

When we had finished, we headed back to the cabin, Pixel carrying a large trout for Abigail. She sat on the porch, cradling a cup of tea. Tracker ran around the front yard, chasing bees. “What do we do now, Terra?” she asked.

“First, we eat and then we talk about the Wiccans,” I told her as Pixel dropped the fish at her feet.

“Why didn’t you have me drink the tea? You keep saying I’m special. That there’s some reason you and I are together. Maybe I’m a Wiccan, too.”

“You’re not a Wiccan, Abigail.” I followed Pixel into the cabin before she could ask any more questions.

After we ate, Abigail counted her change. “I need to get my mother’s watch back,” she said, putting the money into her pocket.

“We’ll head into town to get your watch. First I want to stop at Mrs. Twiggs,” I said. The four of us took the well-worn path back to Biltmore Village. Pixel chased bumblebees along the way. Tracker obliging to help with the hunt, shook his head furiously when he got stung.

We arrived at the Leaf & Page as Mrs. Twiggs was clearing the breakfast dishes from the café tables. Mrs. Tangledwood sat by the fire, reading a book. She looked even younger than when we had seen her the night before. I jumped onto the arm of the wingback chair to see what she was reading. I cricked my head around to the front of the book. In faded gold letter, it read, “Spellbound.” It was a very old book. I could smell the years of water damage, the acid from the yellow paper but what really caught my nose was the smell of old blood. The book had been used in a ceremony. “Oh, hello, Terra, dear.” Mrs. Tangledwood pulled her nose out of the book. “Just doing some light reading. You know, Terra, I’ve been collecting books on magic and the occult for years. I thought them interesting fantasy but these are instruction manuals.” She closed the book. “I’m fascinated by the legends of the Biltmore Society and Olmsted’s studies on the paranormal. Now I know that magic is real.”

“I thought that was the purpose of the ladies of the Biltmore Society to preserve the magic of the forest,” I said.

Mrs. Tangledwood put the book down and let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, no, Terra, the purpose of the ladies of the Biltmore Society is to drink tea and the occasional moonshine. Gossip about our neighbors and keep ourselves as the exclusive society of the daughters of the founding families.”

“Mrs. Twiggs takes it very seriously,” I said.

“Beatrice is a wonderful woman but she’s not really one of us. She wasn’t born here.”

“I’d be careful with that book until you understand your powers,” I told her.

Mrs. Tangledwood smiled and lifted her right hand, pinky in the air as though she was holding a very delicate teacup. From the kitchen, one of Mrs. Twiggs’ precious Rosenthal teacups flew to her on command. I watched as the cup filled itself with a breakfast tea but the smell was sickly sweet. Too much sugar, I thought. Mrs. Tangledwood took a sip, not noticing the odor.

I climbed up the back of her chair and put my head close to her ear. “Be very careful with this book.”

She sipped her tea and continued reading.

Mrs. Twiggs burst into the room, ran up to Abigail and gave her a big hug. “Abigail, that was quite a night,” she said. “I’ve dreamed of this all of my life. All my years of searching for magic, and it was right in front of me.”

Abigail smiled.

“I’m here to help you and Terra anyway I can. Let me show you something,” Mrs. Twiggs said. She walked over to the corner where a tattered banker’s box sat opened. “I’ve brought up a box from the basement full of some very old books on spells and potions that I’ve collected over the years. They’re in pretty bad shape. Mrs. Tangledwood is reading one now.”

We both glanced at the beautiful dark-haired woman, the pages of the book flipping themselves as she read. I jumped onto the coffee table next to the box. They smelled the same as the one in Mrs. Tangledwood’s hands. Mrs. Twiggs had no idea what force she could unleash from these pages. The Wiccans weren’t ready to contain this power. Mrs. Twiggs pulled out each book carefully. Abigail examined the tattered leather bindings shredding from their spine like an exhumed skeleton.

“Abigail, tell Mrs. Twiggs to box up all these books and put them away for safekeeping. The ladies aren’t ready for them as of yet,” I told her.

Abigail did as I directed and so did Mrs. Twiggs. She retrieved the book from Mrs. Tangledwood and placed it carefully on top of the others. Mrs. Twiggs closed and sealed the box. While Abigail carried it back downstairs, Mrs. Twiggs settled into the chair by the fire. I climbed onto her lap. She stroked my fur softly. I realized I was unconditionally purring at her touch. I felt more and more like a cat than a witch as of late. Pixel sat in Mrs. Tangledwood’s lap, purring and biting her blouse. “Terra tells me we should have caution with these books, Beatrice. Do you want me to hold onto them until the others’ powers are stronger?”

“No, Emma, Terra thought it would be best if we put them away for now.”

With that, Mrs. Twiggs looked over at her old friend, well not so old anymore. I could see the sadness in her eyes. She had spent her life chasing magic only to have it land at her doorstep but the door was locked to her. I purred even louder and rubbed my head against her. She smiled, melting the sadness away. Abigail pulled up a wicker chair and joined us by the fire. “So what’s next?”

“I will evaluate each one of the Wiccans to assess their strengths. I will show Mrs. Tangledwood and Mrs. Twiggs potions that will help in their training. And then we begin our circle.”

“What’s that?”

“A closed coven of nine. It’s the most powerful force against black magic. By combining all our strengths, we will shield Asheville from whatever darkness is gathering.”

“But there’s only eight of us?” Mrs. Tangledwood asked.

“Let me worry about that,” I told her.

“I have to go to the pawn shop.” Abigail stood up. I looked around the room. Pixel was sound asleep, his tail dangling temptingly in front of Tracker’s nose. Tracker stood.

We left Pixel to his slumber and headed to the pawnshop. Tracker heeled next to Abigail as we walked as though she had trained him to do so, only stopping occasionally for a sniff or to pick up something delicious from the sidewalk to eat. His tailless behind wiggled as Abigail reached down and scratched him behind the ears. Not being much of a canine enthusiast, I still found myself liking this dog.

Tracker and I waited outside as Abigail went inside to retrieve her watch. Tracker sat quietly, watching, turning his eyes left and right as the day’s shoppers passed us by. Occasionally one would stop to pet him, Tracker would let out a low growl. They would retract their hand and walk away. From inside the store, we could hear Abigail’s conversation with the pawnshop owner. “What do you mean you sold it? I still have five days left on my loan.”

“Honestly I didn’t think you were coming back. Look at you. You’re homeless. I thought maybe you spent the money on drugs.”

“I’ve got the ticket right here. It says I have five days.”

“That’s too bad, isn’t it?”

“You can’t do that. That’s mine.”

“What are you going to do? Call the police? By the looks of you, I don’t think you want to get the police involved.”

Tracker snapped his head around. I could see Abigail reach over the counter and grab the man by the shirt. He slapped her hand away. Tracker grabbed the door handle, opened it and flew in. He leapt onto the counter and barked ferociously in the storeowner’s face, baring his teeth. “Get him out of here. Get this dog out of here.”

Abigail tried to pull Tracker off the counter but he wouldn’t budge. The man reached behind the counter as I ran behind. I could see him reach for a gun. I climbed up his back and scratched both cheeks as deep as I could, drawing blood. He screamed, dropped the gun and fell to the floor. Abigail kicked open the door with Tracker on her heels. Behind the counter, I saw Abigail’s mother’s pocket watch. I grabbed it and flew out the door behind Abigail and Tracker. We didn’t stop until we got back to Mrs. Twiggs. Pixel was screaming. “Terra left Pixel. Terra gone, Terra gone.” Mrs. Twiggs was trying to console him but he would not have it.

When he saw me, he tackled me. I dropped the watch. We somersaulted like a wagon wheel across the dining room floor. “Bad, Terra, bad, Terra. Pixel scared. You no go without Pixel.”

“It’s OK. We’re back. You were asleep. We didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Never, Terra, never,” he said with a stern fat cat voice. I couldn’t help but laugh and love him.

Mrs. Twiggs picked up the watch. She examined it closely. She took out a loupe and rubbed her finger on the back of the case. “This is an Ed Patrick.” She turned the watch over in her hands. “London, late 17th century. It’s very valuable. Where did you get this?”

Abigail grabbed it from Mrs. Twiggs as though she were a pickpocket. “It was my mother’s. It’s all I have left of my real parents.” She flipped open the case. I jumped up on the table to examine it. The time was frozen at 3 o’clock.

In Dreams, They Come

Can’t breathe, my lungs are filing with saltwater. My arms and legs splash frantically, trying to catch hold. I can’t see through the murky water. I’m dying, I’m dying. A pinhole of light strikes me as the tide ebbs and flows out of the cave. I make it onto the rocks and collapse exhausted. It’s still early morning, not enough light to give me away. I gaze down at my reflection in the tide pool, but it’s not me. It can’t be me. Elizabeth had said the vial would save my life, a chance for a new life but this isn’t life. I’m neither witch nor human. I close my eyes in disbelief but I can feel my new body. My soaking fur, my retractable claws, my tail. Heavens be, I have a tail. Elizabeth turned me into a cat. She, my friend, my mentor, how could she condemn me to this foul creature? Oh, no. This is not a new life, this is a prison sentence. No, even worse than a prison sentence, a death sentence. She’s killed my childhood. My chance to be a wife, a mother. I thought Elizabeth to be a friend. I must find her and make her turn me back. I hate you, Elizabeth. Can you hear me? I hate you. I will find you, I swear by our coven, I swear I will find you. I dragged myself across the beach, walking unevenly on my clumsy paws.

What are those sounds pouring into my ears? The woods are alive. Animals scurry, birds rattle, trees are growing. I can hear everything. What torture has Elizabeth laid on me? Surely, I will grow mad. I stop to rest in the hollow of a tree. The smell of the rodents makes my nose twitch, my stomach queasy. Or, is that hunger? No, it cannot be hunger. I will not give into this body. I will not lower myself to be a beast. I am Terra Rowan, descendent of a long line of white witches.

I walk along, gradually gaining confidence in my four paws. I continue into the village to find Elizabeth. I stop at the edge of the town where the tree line ends, thinking I have no need to hide. The village was, is, as it always was. Farmers pulling their produce in wagons, kids chasing behind, women preparing breakfast. I head towards Elizabeth’s farmhouse and hear crying from within. I climb up to the windowsill to see Elizabeth’s aunt sobbing at her table. She is holding Elizabeth’s bonnet. I realize Elizabeth was in dire straits. She is the only one who could change me back. I must find her.

I continue down the road to the next farm. Constance will be helping her brother, gathering eggs or milking the cows. I make my way to the barn to see her brother sitting on a stool next to their cow, staring silently. No, not my dear Constance. They took Constance. The same fates unravel in front of me as I visit each of my coven sister’s homes. The last home I reached was that of Prudence, the dearest of all my sisters. If I am to find refuge anywhere, it will be with her. She will accept me no matter what my fate. Before I could cross her fence, her dog, appears, growling through the tall grass. I’ve played with this dog. He must know me. There must be some remnant of whom I was that he should recognize. He inches closer snarling. I say his name but what comes out are nonsense noises. He lunges at the fence, snapping a wood board. I run as fast as I can on my four paws, crossing over the creek, slipping and falling, the fast-moving current almost pulling me down. For a moment, I swear his eyes turned blood red as he stands on the other side, howling and barking. My fur is soaked and matted. I walk along the opposite bank. He stares before turning around and leaving.

I stare after him for a few minutes. I am cold and hungry and tired. The sun recedes into the pines. I shake from the cold. I have to eat. I have to eat something. Whatever it was to be won’t be cooked. I will never eat a cooked meal again. Thankfully I can smell everything. I can smell the late-blooming beach plums, the fragrant white spring flowers that I had danced through once now bear tart berries. I gather a feast. I breathe in the fox grape, another tart berry that offers sustenance. I am amazed to find the grapes I thought were so near are actually hundreds of feet from where I sit. My sense of smell is so intense. As I eat my way through the forest, I think I will survive at least for the night. I settle under an old ash tree. Why this tree? I do not know. I feel drawn to it. Maybe it is the vertigo that keeps my sense of direction from steadying but something has led me to this tree. Even in the pitch-dark night I can look up from the trunk of the tree and see all the night creatures coming out. I feel safe here. This is the tree. When I was to turn 18 years on the 31st of October, this would have been my wanding tree. For tonight, it will suffice to be my bed.