Bloodline: A Witch Cat Mystery Book One

“Terra, why you talk funny?” Pixel asked.

“What? What are you saying?” the dark and misty dream flew quickly out of my head like a murder of crows. “Pixel, I was dreaming.”

“I saw dream. Pixel see dream,” he said.

“You can see my dreams, Pixel?”

“Me familiar. Terra, come. Abigail, make food.” Pixel danced excitedly around me, nudging me.

I could smell the back bacon and the biscuits from the oven. It smelled better than Abigail’s usual fare. I followed Pixel into the tiny kitchen of the cabin. Mrs. Tangledwood had donned an apron and was pulling a tray of biscuits out of the wood stove. Out of all the Wiccans I had encountered both when I walked on two feet and now on four, I had never seen such rejuvenation. Not just of her physical outward beauty but her aura colors were brilliant, almost blinding to look at. Of all the ladies of the Biltmore Society, Emma Tangledwood would be the one to turn the tide of what would come.

I jumped up on the table and sniffed the fresh biscuits, a habit I had both as a young woman and a cat. Mrs. Tangledwood smiled and rubbed my back. I arched it uncontrollably. “Terra, it will take some time for me to get used to you. To get used to all the changes,” she said. “Shall we eat breakfast and have a talk?”

Abigail poured the tea. I had gotten used to smelling the fresh honey she gathered and the nettle leaf. In her own way Abigail was trying to protect us but she was not the ninth we needed to close our coven. On my journeys across the country I had come across many different types of magic, Wiccans, shape shifters, wood nymphs, but never a witch. I was afraid that I was the last. I had seen Elizabeth hang and although that took her flesh, her spirit had survived. I wandered in search of any sign of her. I spent decades, no centuries, searching for Elizabeth’s daughter and the honorable Jonathan Goodall, Jr., who had disappeared from Salem after Elizabeth was executed. He had never returned not even upon his father’s death. I, too, never returned to Salem after Elizabeth, I could not stand by and watch the rest of my sisters be extinguished. Like Elizabeth’s spirit, I am afraid, they too, left this world. Otherwise surely we would have found each other in one form or another. That would have to wait until another day. The problem at hand is to find the ninth Wiccan and summon what powers she has. For this purpose I must count on Mrs. Tangledwood. She will be my apprentice.

“Terra, dear, aren’t you going to eat?” Mrs. Tangledwood asked, breaking my thoughts.

“Yes, Mrs. Tangledwood, of course. It smells delicious.”

Pixel had already finished his third piece of bacon. Tracker was begging for his fifth. Abigail sipped the tea and stared quietly at me.

As Mrs. Tangledwood cleared the breakfast dishes, I walked outside with Abigail. She sat on the logs by the fire pit, I paced back and forth. Finally she broke the silence. “Are you going to tell me what’s been on your mind?” She pulled her knife out of her boot. She flipped the blade into the ground, retrieved it and repeated it several times. I had noticed she did this when she was upset or nervous.

“Lionel and Bryson were watchers.” I did not know how to explain to her what that meant. “Abigail, they were tasked to keep you safe.”

“Why me? Why them?”

“That I don’t know.”

Abigail said. “Why would somebody want to kill them?”

I paused. “Lionel’s life and yours are on a path leading to a crossroads. The black magic killed Lionel and Bryson because you are close to that crossroads.”

Abigail stuck the knife back in her boot. “Terra, I can’t do this. People are dying around me. I can’t help you. This is insane. I’m heading back to Chicago.”

“No, Abigail, no go.” Pixel jumped out of the corner and onto Abigail. He put his paws on her chest and opened his saucer eyes wide. “No go, no go, no go,” he said, kneading her.

Abigail cracked a smile. “Pixel, you’ll be fine. You have Tracker and Terra and the nice ladies of the Biltmore Society.”

“No, Abigail, no go,” Pixel repeated. And then he spoke clearly with purpose and with an intelligence I had not thought possible. “No, Abigail, the storm is coming for you. Lionel tried to stop it.” Pixel closed his eyes. “Terra?”

“Yes, Pixel.”

“Pixel scared.”

The Fillmore Hotel

I waited until morning to bring my friends to the Fillmore. As of late, I didn’t feel safe traveling at night. Dark things prefer dark places. It seemed that some myths are based on reality. The boogiemen, the noise in your closet, the shadow in the corner of your bedroom, are all monsters peering in at you through the window of an alternate world. Most humans can’t see them but they can feel them by the raised hair on the back of their neck, the goose bumps on their arms, the sensation of cold drafts, a creaky door, a loose floorboard, a movement out of the corner of your eye. Most of these creatures are not maleficent. Most are lonely souls, but there are the others who feed off of sorrow and fear. Those creatures live in the realm of black magic. Elizabeth once told me that shining a light on the bumps in the night would make them take flight. I was only three at the time so I thought it was a pretty bedtime story. After so many years of wandering the earth I understood what she meant. Shining a light on black magic reveals its true identity and drains it of its power.

Abigail had filled her backpack with all her belongings. I had convinced her to make one stop before leaving town. Pixel and Tracker followed behind us. The streets were mostly empty. Anyone at dawn was either ending a long night or starting a long day. We arrived at the brass doors of the hotel where Wesley stood guard. Even when there were no guests to attend Wesley never left his post. “Good morning, miss, I’m surprised to see you so early,” he said. “You must be hungry.”

“No, thank you, Wesley, You’re quite kind. I’ve come for a different purpose,” I said.

“Terra, how come he can understand you?” Abigail asked. The constant beep of a cement truck coming down the alley distracted me. I could tell Wesley was annoyed by the commotion as well.

I hushed Abigail. “Quiet, Abigail.”

“And, who is this young lady?”

“I’m Abigail. Nice to meet you.” She paused. “Wesley.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Abigail. You must excuse me but breakfast will be served shortly. Guests will be waiting.”

“Of course, Wesley,” I interrupted. “You must be very busy getting ready for the opening tonight.”

“Yes, we are expecting so many guests. And Mr. Vanderbilt will be here with the family.”

Abigail started speaking. I shushed her. Wesley whispered, “A very special guest from Louisiana, a medium, will be holding a séance. You know how the Vanderbilt’s enjoy a good séance.” Wesley’s face went blank. His coal black eyes turned milky white in a moment he was back. “I’m sorry, young miss, you were saying?” Wesley reached under his sleeve and rubbed his arm, revealing the burn marks. “Yes, the séance is tonight. Mademoiselle gave me quite a list.”

“What list, Wesley?” I asked.

“The strangest things: twigs of ash, oak and thorn, nettle leave.”

Abigail turned pale.

“Thank you, Wesley,” I said. We walked down the sidewalk, but Abigail kept turning her head to stare at the hotel.

“The hotel looks like it’s been boarded over for years. What is Wesley doing here during all this construction?”

“It burned down years ago but it was really something when it opened. That was the night I met Wesley.” I closed my eyes and pictured the magnificent grand opening. I could hear the music. It was spring; I could smell the lilacs in bloom around me. Wesley was dapper in his livery.

“When did it burn down?” Abigail asked, interrupting my memories.

“The night it opened. George Vanderbilt built the hotel so his friends could stay here while the estate was being built.”

Abigail quietly absorbed what I said and then broke in, “Wait a minute, Terra, that would make Wesley 150 years old.”

“No, that would make Wesley what you would call a ghost. The night of the grand opening there was a great fire. Wesley relives that night every night.”

I could hear Abigail’s flesh crawling, the hair on the back of her neck stiffening, her heart pounding rapidly, her eyes dilated. “Why did you bring me here? I told you I couldn’t help you.”

“Abigail, I brought you here to show you that magic--good and bad-- is everywhere. Running home to Chicago won’t save you. The reckoning follows you wherever you go. It has you marked for some fate. Powers brought you to Asheville and brought others here to help protect you. Lionel couldn’t but I can.”

“Pixel, too. Me protect Abigail,” Pixel said.

Tracker barked and circled Abigail, gazing up at her with his ghost blue eyes. “Once we find the ninth Wiccan and close the coven each of them will protect you, too. This is where you need to be, Abigail.”

“Who is this medium that Wesley was talking about?”

“This is the first time he’s ever spoken of her. He was telling you not me, Abigail. Someone wanted you to know. We need to find out who she was.”

Biltmore Forest

Biltmore Forest is a community of exquisite homes and exclusive lifestyles. Tucked into a corner carved out of the woods surrounding the Biltmore Estate, it was its own little enclave. I walked these trails for many years. Like the woods I grew up in, this forest holds many mysteries. Some of the trees have stood here for hundreds of years, others were uprooted from foreign continents at the command of a scion, an heir to the throne of a railroad tycoon’s fortune. George Vanderbilt carved his island into the North Carolina dirt to reap the rejuvenating benefits of the mountain air. His master landscape engineer Frederick Law Olmsted built his new world out of pieces of the old world, bamboo trees from the Orient, walnut from the Black Forest. Each turn of the path brought a new vista of Olmsted’s vision. He was an alchemist, experimenting with different flora and fauna. I had slept many nights out in these woods, listening to the trees.

I led Abigail over to a Rowan tree that had provided me shelter over many nights. Flashes of the crescent moon filtered through its bony branches. I rubbed my scent against the tree. Pixel did the same. Tracker ran off, chasing a squirrel. “This is my family tree, Abigail. The mountain ash,” I said. “Using the term family tree to trace your heritage began with the Druids back in Ireland. They worshipped all the trees especially the oak. Families tethered their lives to their family tree. I feel most at home with the ash.”

“Pixel like.” He purred loudly, rubbing against the tree again. “Me family tree, too.”

Abigail sat down under the tree. Pixel sat in her lap, arching his back as she stroked his fur. Abigail pulled a silver knife out of her backpack, studying it. “Why did you have me bring this, Terra?”

“Elizabeth warned me about testing such unproven magic. Black magic will be drawn to us. Magic knows magic. If evil does come, we must be prepared for it,” I told her. “Until we discover each individual Wiccan’s power, they are vulnerable but once they are united as a coven they will be protected.”

“There’s only eight but you told me you need nine to have a closed coven?”

“I sense there’s another Wiccan in Asheville. I haven’t found her yet. Until I do, we need to prepare the rest,” I said.

Before I could finish, we heard Tracker barking ferociously. He was standing behind Abigail, staring into the dark. Pixel ran up to Tracker’s side and growled, puffing himself up. Even with my cat’s eyes, I couldn’t see into the blue black of the unlit forest. The canopy overhead strangled out any moonlight but like Tracker and Pixel I could smell the pungent malignant creature. The smell of death. Tracker began to charge into the deep woods. Abigail grabbed him, holding him close. He strained against her, growling. “No, Tracker, no,” she cried out. And, then the smell was gone.

We rose and took to the path again on our way to Mrs. Tangledwood’s house. It rose up from the long driveway, a brick-and-stucco French chateau style, inspired by the Biltmore estate. The crescent moon reappeared over the top of the peaked gables. I counted six not seven. I wondered if Mrs. Tangledwood was aware she was one gable short. Abigail stood and marveled at the decadence that old money provided. “Does she live here by herself?” she whispered.

I didn’t answer. Abigail glanced at her torn jeans and worn leather jacket. Pixel cleaned his fur to make himself presentable. We stepped up to the 10-foot-high hand-carved wooden door that had previously kept guard at the entrance of a thirteenth century French monastery. Abigail knocked tentatively. A young servant woman opened the door and led us back toward the conservatory. The ladies were chattering away, sipping tea. I smelled several varieties but no nettle leaves. I could tell Abigail noticed also.

“Abigail, dear, you made it. I don’t know why you wouldn’t let me send a car for you.” Mrs. Tangledwood hugged Abigail, the diamond eternity necklace radiating in the moonlight. Her Jimmy Choos clicked on the marble entryway as she led us in. I noticed how far Mrs. Tangledwood had come since her awakening. She stopped by a vase of wilted roses and touched each stem bringing them back to life. She smiled at me. Indeed, her powers of rejuvenation had grown since I had last seen her. Tonight, I’d learn her bloodline and the powers that gave her that ability.

“Terra wanted to show me some of the surrounding woods,” Abigail said.

“Yes, of course, I’m glad you’re here now. Have a cup of tea and some petit fours. Cook just took them out of the oven.” Mrs. Tangledwood waved toward a small round table where we saw the elaborate trays of refreshments.

Pixel glanced at me for approval. I nodded my ok. He ran over to Mrs. Twiggs, jumped in her lap and begged for a bite of her raspberry macaroon. Abigail walked to the blazing fire. From her backpack, she retrieved the eight bundles of twigs we had collected as we walked through the Biltmore Forest. I walked up next to her and turned to the ladies who were still chattering.

“Ladies, ladies, please,” I said. They all stopped with their teacups midair and glanced down at me. Abigail placed the twigs by the fire. She closed the large French doors to the conservatory and switched the lights off. “Mrs. Stickman,” I said, “please come up to the fire.”

Mrs. Twiggs shifted on the velvet couch. “Oh, dear, isn’t someone going to explain to me what’s going on?”

Abigail translated for me. “Terra says she is so sorry, Mrs. Twiggs.” Abigail held up a bundle of twigs. “These are ash, oak and thorn branches. They’re tied with holly vines. According to Terra, it’s the magical trinity of the witch world. The holly vine binds the three to make them stronger just as combining the ladies of the Biltmore Society will make you stronger. She wants each one of you to stand by the fire as we burn a bundle of the twigs. The smoke will engulf you. This will allow Terra to see your true light, the aura that surrounds all souls.”

“I’ve read about similar ceremonies from many cultures that burn wood or incense. The Cherokee use birch to draw out bad spirits from their hunting grounds, Buddhist monks burn certain tea leaves, and early Appalachian settlers burned sage in the corners of the house to drive away bad spirits and bless their dwelling.” Mrs. Twiggs said, nodding her understanding.

After Mrs. Stickman threw her bundle into the fire, she waited. The twigs crackled, a plume of smoke rose from the fire and surrounded her. Her body lifted off the floor. She froze suspended a foot off the ground. I watched what the rest couldn’t see. The symphony of lights that danced around Mrs. Stickman. And then like the last seconds before death I could see Mrs. Stickman’s life story pass before me. Her years at boarding school, her nanny reading to her in a rocking chair, her birth, her cells forming into an embryo, her spirit racing along a string of DNA back to the beginning of her families’ bloodline. Before me stood not Mrs. Stickman but the good pagan witch of ancient Nigeria, Oya, goddess of violent storms. In the ancient years, the humans believed powerful witches were gods. Her colors were storm cloud gray and lightning yellow-white. Mrs. Stickman floated back to the floor, landing on her tiptoes softly. She woke out of her trance, shaking her head and staring intently at me. “I have the power to control the weather?” she asked.

“Your ancestor witches could summon a storm or two but I’m afraid your bloodline has mingled for so many centuries with humans that it’s weakened your ability. With practice you’ll be able to summon some of those powers. Now that I know your strength I can help you,” I said.

I continued with each lady. “Mrs. Jean Branchworthy, throw the bundle into the fire.” As with Doris Stickman, Mrs. Branchworthy was engulfed with white smoke. She hovered in front of me, her eyes rolling back into her head, revealing Celtic fire. Her true light of red and yellow embers radiated around her. “Welcome child of Aodh,” I said.

Mrs. Branchworthy smiled. “She was the Celtic witch goddess of fire.”

I nodded my head. Mrs. Branchworthy sat back down. I called up Mrs. Bartlett. She stopped and turned to Mrs. Tangledwood, who urged, “Go ahead, dear.” She urged her. “It’ll be OK.”

Mrs. Bartlett forced a smile. She reached for a bundle of sticks and then dropped them before running out of the room. Mrs. Tangledwood and I chased after her. We found her sitting in the throne chair, which stood guard in the entryway. Her face was buried in her hands. Mrs. Tangledwood put her arm around her. “Nupur, dear, are you OK?”

Nupur lifted her head, tears stained her face. “Emma, I can’t do this. This is too much, and I'm so very frightened.”

“Nupur, we need you. I need you.”

“You don’t understand, Emma. When my family came to America, my parents wanted to assimilate into the American culture. They shunned the Hindu religion and our culture. They wanted to be Americans. They made me American. I cannot accept this mysticism, this so-called magic.”

I rubbed up against her. I could feel her trembling. I sang to her in Hindu. She smiled. “My grandmother sang that song to me when I was a little girl in Delhi.”

I leapt onto her lap and put my paws on her shoulder, whispering, “You have more strength and courage than you know, navasi.” It was the Hindi word for daughter’s daughter.

She smiled and hugged me. “I can do this,” she said. We returned to the conservatory. Mrs. Bartlett stood in front of the fire, drew in a deep breath and threw her bundle of twigs into the blaze. Moments later, the smoke lifted her off the ground. I heard the temple bells chime. Kali, the goddess of time, creation, destruction and power, floated before me. Her radiant blue and gold aura emitted intense power. Kali, the destroyer of evil, the protector of good. Mrs. Bartlett awoke from her trance. She quietly sat down by the others.

I turned to the next. “Caroline Bowers, please come up.” As Mrs. Bowers placed her bundle in the fire, I heard the faint resonance of the electric guitar. I hummed the melody to myself unable to keep from smiling as I sang along with Stevie Nicks to “Rhiannon”, the Celtic goddess of the moon. Her colors were silver and black.

“I heard it, too,” Mrs. Bowers said, opening her eyes. “What powers does the moon hold?”

“In good time,” I told her. “Please sit with the others.” Then I turned back to them. “Mrs. Raintree, please,” I said following her up to the fire.

She stood straight and tall, the yellow glow of the flames highlighted her blue-black straight hair and her dark skin. I was reminded of Agatha Hollows and the nights we sat before her fire. Mrs. Raintree emitted coral and turquoise, the colors of Elihino, the Cherokee goddess of the earth, a witch princess who ensured good harvest.

Next was Mrs. Loblolly. She shuffled to the hearth. Within moments after placing the twigs in the flame, I could smell the salt air. I could hear the flapping of the tall sails. The very large Mrs. Loblolly floated naked. Her long reddish brown hair wrapped around the body of the Nordic goddess, Freya, the goddess of fertility and war. Her colors were sea mist green and the pale white of Valkyrie horns.

Gwendolyn Birchbark bowed politely to Mrs. Tangledwood before standing in front of the fire. She placed her bundle in and awaited her revelation. Kuan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy and compassion, a very ancient goddess who some believed was one of the very first white witches to have walked the earth. Her aura shone red and sun yellow.

The ladies talked over each other in their excitement as they shared what they had seen. I watched Mrs. Twiggs as each of her friends began their new life. I felt sad I couldn’t help her.

Mrs. Stickman pulled her ponytail, raven hair, from behind her neck to study the streak of white. The ladies looked at each other, they each bore the same streak. “What’s with the streak of white?”

“Now you begin your journey to become a coven,” I said.

There was a tap at the French doors. The maid entered, carrying a tray with champagne flutes. After taking one, the ladies toasted each other.

“Emma, you have not burned your twigs,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

“Yes, of course.” She put her champagne flute down and stepped over to the fire. Tracker let out a low growl and ran to the long window. As she went to put her bundle into the fire, a gust of wind came down the chimney, tossing ash and embers around the room. Smoke poured out of the fireplace, choking the air. The ladies screamed and darted out onto the lawn. A spark caught the velvet couch, which ignited instantly followed by the drapes. Mrs. Tangledwood fell onto the lawn, choking. All around me the ladies of the Biltmore Society coughed and gasped for air. In the distance, we could hear the scream of the fire trucks. After recovering, Mrs. Tangledwood lifted me off the ground. “What is it? What is happening?”

“We’ve summoned the black magic.” My words hung in the air as we breathed in the dark smoke.

Jean Branchworthy

“Mrs. Branchworthy,” I said.

“Please, Terra, I’ve asked you to call me Jean,” she replied.

Mrs. Branchworthy, Jean, sat on her screen porch, snapping her fingers. As she did, small puffs of smoke appeared. Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs sat down in the white wicker chairs across from Mrs. Branchworthy and me.

“Oh, where are my manners? Can I get anyone some tea? I’ll have my maid prepare some.”

“Oh, no, thank you, Jean,” Mrs. Twiggs said politely.

I leapt onto the small coffee table. I could see Pixel and Tracker running in the backyard. Mrs. Branchworthy’s house was much less grand than Emma Tangledwood’s. Not much more than a large turn-of-the-century farmhouse that she and her husband had been restoring for the past several decades. Mrs. Twiggs had told me the history of the Branchworthy farm, one of the last remaining 10-acre farmettes in Biltmore Forest, each acre could sell for over a million dollars to build a 10,000-square-foot monstrosity. The Branchworthys felt it important to maintain the green space as they called it of their small community. Now almost 60 years later, Jean’s children and her grandchildren had grown and moved out, scattered across the country. Mrs. Twiggs told me that at times Jean felt left behind. After her husband died, the children barely made it home for a birthday or Christmas. Jean had dedicated her life to her husband and her children and caring for her home. I do not like the term homemaker. It seems to diminish the importance of a woman who raises a family. She was a caregiver, a teacher, and a mentor.

Jean was now snapping both fingers. “May I ask what you are doing, Jean?”

“I’m summoning fire, Terra,” she said, gazing at me.

“I see. I think before we attempt that you should understand the history of your bloodline.”

“Oh, of course. My grandparents came from Cork in Ireland during the potato famine. They settled in New York.”

I interrupted, “Jean, I mean to go a bit further back.”

“Oh, OK.”

“You are a descendant of the Celtic fire goddess, Aodh. She was a very powerful white witch who could summon fire. The fables tell of her hurling fireballs at the invading Romans. My mentor, Elizabeth told me that Aodh understood the alchemy of harvesting the powers of the sun through her fingertips.”

Jean stopped snapping her fingers with a horrified look.

“Oh, no, Jean, you won’t be able to wield that power but with enough practice and understanding the physics behind your power you shall be a formidable force,” I told her.

“I don’t understand, Terra. Do I just think it and it happens? I’ve been practicing all morning. I picture fire, I can feel the heat in my fingertips but nothing comes out except small puffs of smoke.”

I leapt up next to Jean on the couch. I looked around and spotted my reflection on the antique mirror leaning against a potted plant. “Jean, come with me.” I led her to the mirror. Jean stood in front of it, turning left to right then looking over her shoulder.

“I look 30 again and thin.”

“Do you believe the image in the mirror, Jean?”

“Yes, of course, I’m looking right at my reflection.”

“The image you see is what your mind portrays you as. This is your true self, your true light. This is as Aodh perceived herself and all her descendants. Because you believe it, it is true. The same is true for your powers. You must believe that you can summon fire. It must be as sure to you as the sun will rise tomorrow or the stars will shine tonight. You must believe that it is part of the physics of nature. Believe it and it shall be true.”

“Terra, I feel the heat rising from my body to my fingertips.”

“Stop thinking, Jean, empty your mind. Do you need to think to breathe?”

“No, I just breathe.”

“It’s mechanical, Jean. The same is true of your powers.”

As we spoke, small flames rose from Jean’s fingertips. She raised her hands and stared with a delighted smile.

“It begins, Jean.”

Doris Stickman

“The goddess Oya controlled winds and storms. She ruled over Nigeria and before that the fertile crescent where mankind began,” I told her. “Her bloodline and yours goes back much further than humans.”

“Terra, my ancestors were slaves. They were brought here in the 1700s. My grandfather four times removed was a slave here in North Carolina until the emancipation. He helped the freed slaves settle on the land at the Biltmore estate,” Mrs. Stickman said.

“That’s on your father’s side of the family. Wiccans carry their mothers’ bloodline.”

“Like most descendants of slaves, there is not much official documentation about my family before the Civil War.”

“When you threw your sticks into the fire, Oya appeared to me. You are her descendant.”

Mrs. Stickman rubbed her pointy chin. Her great-grandchildren ran in from the backyard, jumping on her lap. “Nana, why do you look so good?” the youngest asked.

Mrs. Stickman smiled and rubbed the young boy’s head. “Y’all go back outside now. I have business with Mrs. Twiggs.”

Mrs. Twiggs smiled at the children as they ran back outside. We could hear their laughter as they played. We sat in Doris’ library. When we had arrived, I admired her collection of first editions, most of them written by African-American authors, including an original diary written by abolitionist Harriet Tubman. She had caught me glancing at it. She had told me her great-grandfather was an acquaintance of Ms. Tubman. Her early 20th century-Craftsman style home was small compared to the other ladies but it was well built and comfortable. It was built on the land that was originally given to the freed slaves by George Vanderbilt.

Earlier, as we drove up the long gravel driveway to her house, I had seen many slaves walking the open meadow, carrying sickles on their way to the crop fields. I was the only one who saw them.

“Terra, how do I begin?” Mrs. Stickman asked.

“There is a barometer within all of us. Do you ever feel you can tell when a storm is approaching?”

She thought for a moment before replying, “My arthritis acts up if a cold front is coming. My sinuses bother me right before a rainstorm.”

“Your body is in tune with these changes in the atmosphere. Think of yourself like a lightning rod reacting to the atmosphere around you. This is a symbiotic relationship. As the weather affects you, you too can affect the weather. Have you ever felt gloomy or sad on a rainy day?”

“Yes, I think many people do.”

I thought for a minute. This was a lot to convey to her. “Doris, I’d like you to think of something sad right now. Would you please?”

Doris nodded her head and closed her eyes. As she did I ran to the window. Nothing. It was a beautiful sunny day.

“Doris, what were you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about the other night at Mrs. Tangledwood’s and the fire.”

“No, Doris, think of something that touches you deeply. Something very personal.” As I spoke, Doris turned her eyes to the framed picture of her and husband’s wedding photo. Her husband has passed years before. She picked it up and sat behind the desk. She closed her eyes. Behind her, the large palladium window began to ping from drops of rain. Storm clouds gathered. She began to cry. The clouds opened up and a torrential rain came down upon the house. She opened her eyes and just as quickly the storm clouds disappeared and the sun peeked through. She looked at me with disbelief. “You need to learn to calibrate those emotions so you can control them.”

“How do I do that?”

I ran over to Mrs. Twiggs who opened her purse and handed me a pigeon feather. I took it in my mouth and then leapt onto the desk in front of Mrs. Stickman and dropped it in front of her. She picked it up and stared. “Think about your husband and then blow gently on this feather.” As she did, I could see some leaves rustle in the window. “Now, Doris, blow hard.”

As she did, pebbles flew against the window. “That’s enough for now,” I said. Her smile lit up her face. “Concentrate your emotions and picture the elements. And then you will be able to control them.”

Nupur Bartlett

I could smell the curry as Nupur hurried herself about her kitchen. She insisted on making a special meal for us before beginning her training. Pixel was very excited. He had never tasted East Indian food. Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs sat at the dining room table, talking softly as Nupur bustled around the kitchen. “Me hungry,” Pixel said.

“Don’t be rude, Pixel,” I told him.

“Mrs. Bartlett is so quiet and reserved. How are you going to make her a slayer of demons?” Abigail asked.

“It’s in her blood. She needs to build her confidence. Quiet, here she comes.”

Nupur backed out of the kitchen though the swinging doors carrying a tray filled with steaming Indian food. “I have prepared chicken curry, jasmine rice and nanna.” I could hear Pixel’s tail thumping under the table. Tracker sat quietly by Abigail’s feet.

Mrs. Bartlett hesitated before allowing the animals into her home. Her beautiful 5,000-square-foot colonial was located on the southeast corner of Biltmore Forest, and was surrounded by lovely gardens. Mrs. Bartlett’s late husband was renowned for his roses. He had served in the Carolina senate for nearly 40 years and like many men of his age had passed, shortly after retirement.

Mrs. Bartlett served the food. Abigail placed bowls under the table for us “animals.” I suddenly felt ridiculous, eating far eastern Indian food off fine china under a table next to Pixel who was grunting and slopping food everywhere and Tracker who was licking his bowl clean. I finished eating and wandered throughout the house leaving their conversation behind me. I stopped to admire an Atul Dodiya painting, “Woman from Kabul,” an Indian modernist master reinterpreted. I stood transfixed. I had seen similar paintings in the Biltmore. I rubbed my head against the gold leaf wallpaper which could be seen as garish yet somehow fit the great room. I glanced back at my comrades sitting around the Henredon table, overhead a Swarovski crystal chandelier. Mrs. Bartlett had made a lovely home for her family. It made me sad to think I would never have a home like this and even sadder that I would never have a family.

I tiptoed back into the dining room and climbed up on a chair next to Mrs. Bartlett. “Please Terra, please call me Nupur.”

“Of course, Nupur. Lunch was delicious. Thank you.”

“Of course, you’re most welcome. Terra, I know the myth about Kali. My grandmother would tell me stories when I was a little girl. But when we came to America, my father forbid her from speaking of the old county.”

“I understand.”

“My grandmother believed she had special powers. She would light candles and pray to Kali and her wishes would often come true.”

“Your witch bloodline goes back through the females of your family even as the women of your family married and their surnames changed. Their heritage followed them. Your name Bartlett from the pear tree is a derivative of your ancient name.”

“I don’t understand. I married Joseph Bartlett, and he was American. His family was originally Scotch-Irish.”

“Magic knows magic. Even though he was human, somewhere there were witches in his family perhaps back in Ireland or Scotland. Wiccans find their tree name whether through marriage or through their maternal bloodlines. Your husband’s family’s magic dwindled though the years yet you were still drawn to it.”

“Shall we adjourn to the sitting room?” Nupur stood up from the table and led us into the adjoining living room, decorated with antiques. I was surprised to see a gold statue of Kali sitting on top of a cabinet. “This was my grandmother’s. I had stored it away for years. I brought it out from the attic after the ceremony.”

Abigail examined the statue closely. “My grandmother would pray to Kali to protect us, to watch over us and keep us from evil. She told me that Kali would speak to her in dreams. She told me of one dream she had of me as a young woman dressed in my wedding sari astride an elephant. I was brandishing a sword and slashing at thousands of crows that flew down upon me,” recalled Mrs. Bartlett.

“Nupur, you shall be our protector. The black magic fears you. It knows the power you could wield but you must believe in yourself.” At my nod, Abigail pulled a knife out of her boot.

The 12-inch long silver blade glowed white hot as Nupur touched its handle. “Abigail is quite good with knives. She is going to teach you how to wield it. With practice, your confidence will grow.”

Gwendolyn Birchbark

Next on my list was Gwendolyn Birchbark. Mrs. Twiggs drove along Creek Road, which ran the perimeter of the Biltmore Forest community. After leaving Nupur Bartlett’s house, I began to see a pattern I had not noticed before. I had Abigail Google map all the ladies’ houses for me. She turned around in her seat in the front of the car and held up her iPhone. “You were right, Terra, look,” she said.

The little red dots on the Google map formed a perfect circle. Without knowing why, all the ladies lived in homes, which formed a circle on the perimeter of Biltmore Forest as if they had already known they were a coven. Each keeping watch, protecting something deep within the forest. Something drew them to these woods and to each other. A crossroads of white magic bloodlines from around the world. We reached Mrs. Birchbark’s home, a Victorian. I had read her house was on the national registry and was originally owned by Olmsted’s apprentice and master arborist, Wendell Waxman.

Mrs. Twiggs from over her shoulder, asked, “Terra, what’s going on?”

Abigail related the coincidence of the mapping of the ladies’ homes.

“Mm, that’s interesting,” she said.

Tracker and Pixel led the way up the circle driveway to the wraparound porch, which was decorated with scarecrows and pumpkins and cornstalks. Abigail avoided the scarecrows. Mrs. Birchbark greeted us. “I thought it was such an unusually warm fall day we might sit on the front porch and talk,” she said. “I’ve made sweet tea.” She pointed to a small table at the far end of the porch.

Pixel and Tracker jumped up onto the small cedar loveseat. Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs found two matching rocking chairs. I leapt onto the railing, facing all of them. Mrs. Birchbark poured tea and sat in the rocker next to Mrs. Twiggs.

“Gwendolyn, how did you find this beautiful house?”

Mrs. Birchbark placed her iced tea glass down on a side table. “My husband, Stanley, wanted to live in Weaverville, 15 miles from here. He owned several building supply companies but I was really drawn to Asheville and the woods. I loved the history of it, loved the trees,” She spoke with a delicious southern drawl, her words lingered a bit longer in the air as though not willing to be exhausted.

“I understand but why this particular house?”

“We found it, now this was maybe 30 years ago? It was in dire need of repair. It had such charm and such history, I felt it worthy of the work. Of course my husband being a contractor, did a lot of the work himself. For some of the masonry and fine carpentry, he used local artisans. I did a lot of research at the Asheville library.” She drew a long pause. “I found some original photographs from when the house was built in 1890. I tried to be as true to the original construction as possible, you understand.” She paused for a moment. “I couldn’t think of moving after Stanley passed.”

“I see,” I said. “It’s a beautiful home and you’ve taken great care of it. Tell me more what drew you to Biltmore Forest.”

“I believe there is a history here, and I don't mean to seem flippant but you can feel the magic in the air.”

Mrs. Twiggs smiled as Abigail translated our conversation.

“At night I open my windows and listen to the owls. The songbirds wake me at predawn. Even though I’m just a mile from creek road and the busy downtown, I feel like these woods are another world.”

I walked along the long railing admiring the soaring aspens and cedars. I spotted several owls’ nests, a good sign that they watched over Mrs. Birchbark. Owls have always been friends to the witch, not familiars but equals in their own way. The Chinese witches brought owls with them as they walked over the earth. They were what we called the ancient earth walkers. Yes, this was a safe place.

“Terra.”

I broke from my thoughts and walked back to where they all sat.

“I’ve been doing some reading about Kuan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy and compassion. My family dates back to the Chou dynasty. My great-grandfather came over from China to San Francisco during the railroad expansion. He became one of the first Chinese railroad engineers allowed to work on the Transunion Railroad. Eventually that’s when he met Vanderbilt and was commissioned to help run the railroad into Biltmore Forest to bring supplies to build the estate.” She paused. “I have many photographs and letters from my great-grandfather about these railroad days and even some from his mother from China that she wrote to him when he came to San Francisco. But I’ve never read or seen anything in our family history about Kuan Yin.”

Mrs. Twiggs said, “Who is Kuan Yin?”

“Kuan Yin is one of the most revered goddesses in all of China. According to legend, she was about to enter paradise after achieving Nirvana when she heard cries from Earth. She rushed back to Earth to ease the suffering and achieved immortality.”

“Terra, I don’t understand. What powers does Mrs. Birchbark possess?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

“Mrs. Birchbark has the most powerful magic to combat black magic. She has compassion. The way to defeat evil is through self-sacrifice and love. Her mother witch Kuan Yin gave up eternal paradise to ease the suffering of others. Mrs. Birchbark’s mercy and compassion will cloak us through the dark days ahead.”

“How do I do that? What kind of magic does it take to protect all my friends?” Mrs. Birchbark asked.

“You’ve already brought the magic to us.” As I spoke, nine owls flew out from the tree lines and landed on the railings next to me. “Gwendolyn, send them to watch over your friends.”

Mrs. Birchbark addressed herself to each owl in turn and whispered in their ears. As all but one flew off, she sat back down in her rocking chair and rocked slowly.

Caroline Bowers

As we drove to Caroline Bowers’ estate, Mrs. Twiggs played the Fleetwood Mac self-titled album. The haunting melody of “Rhiannon” has played in my head since the night of Mrs. Bowers’ reveal. Abigail tapped the dashboard in time to the drums. Mrs. Twiggs bobbed her head. Pixel and Tracker were oblivious. I had been backstage in 1975 when Fleetwood Mac played in Boston. I was living in Mystic at the time and heard about the show coming to Boston. I walked all night, sneaking past some roadies through the back door. I hid behind the Marshall amps and watched Stevie Nicks spinning on stage, her black lace chasing behind her. My heart pounded. She understood witches and what drove us. Her words spoke to me. At the end of the show, I couldn’t help myself. I found my way to her dressing room just to be closer to her. She discovered me hiding in the shadows. She was the first creature to recognize me for who I am. Neither witch nor human. Stevie Nicks has powers through her music. It is an ethereal power that transcends this world.

Mrs. Bowers waited for us on the northeast corner of the woods. Our daylong journey to each of the ladies’ houses had turned into evening. I had not yet quite understood how each of the ladies’ powers were entwined with their home site. I thought about the children’s book, The Wizard of Oz, and the witches of the four quadrants. L. Frank Baum stumbled upon a truth about witches. We are tied into geographic locations--the ladies to the Biltmore Forest and their particular quadrant of the forest.

Mrs. Bowers’ home dripped with kudzu entwined in elegantly carved wrought iron trellises. It reminded me of plantations I had seen in New Orleans. She led us to the back veranda so the moonlight could drip down on us, she said. I could hear the rush of water from the stream that ran along the back of her property. She understood the white magic of running water.

Her black-blue hair swung down her back, accenting the pale ivory of her freckled skin. Her eyes were clear and sapphire blue. Her flowing black lace gown clung to her slender frame. She floated towards us, twirling once in the moonlight. I couldn’t help but be reminded of Stevie Nicks. I was the only one who could see both versions of Mrs. Bowers. Her inward beauty and her earthly wear. When the ladies looked in the mirror, they saw their inward beauty but to those around them they appeared almost unchanged. They appeared as they should a woman of their age, perhaps more spry, a twinkle in their eye.

“Where do we begin?” Caroline trilled. The moonlight enhanced her newfound youthful glow. Her skin absorbed the moonlight like a melatonin to sunlight. It charged her.

Abigail sat in a wrought iron lounge, bathing herself in the moonlight. She, too, had an affinity for the night. Her feet danced to the silent music that only she could hear through her earbuds.

Mrs. Twiggs rubbed her elbow. “What’s wrong?” Caroline asked.

“Oh, it feels like a cold front is coming. My arthritis.”

Mrs. Bowers walked over and turned on the outdoor gas fireplace. Mrs. Twiggs settled next to the fire, wrapped in her shawl. As the Biltmore ladies felt younger I feared Mrs. Twiggs was experiencing the opposite effect. The stress of recent events had drained her. For now, I needed to turn to the matter at hand.

Abigail translated for Mrs. Twiggs as I spoke, “Rhiannon means white witch or great queen.” I curtseyed and bowed my head. “You have royal blood and possess the deepest magic of all,” I continued.

Mrs. Bowers curtseyed back. “My family were poor farmers. My father from Ireland, my mother from Wales. I don’t believe we have any royalty in our family, far from it. We were quite poor when we came to America. I married well. My husband, the colonel, was in the tobacco industry.”

I thought to myself how all the ladies had outlived their husbands, not so unusual for women in their 70s and 80s. Mrs. Bowers asked, “How can I help, Terra?”

“You, Caroline, are the thread that binds us. Your mother witch conjured great white magic. Rhiannon could manifest dreams and desires for the good of all kind. She used the forest fairies and nymphs to cast dreams and fulfill wishes upon the deserving.” As I spoke, I could see the fireflies flickering through the woods, the tiny fairies that surrounded Caroline’s estate. She could not see them yet or not allow herself to see them.

“Terra, how do I do that?”

“You do that through your dreams. You have the power to make dreams come true. You are our labyrinth of the unconscious. Reach out to each of your sisters tonight as you sleep, send out your magic in their slumber.”

Mrs. Bowers smiled and filled a goblet full of wine. “I may need some inspiration for that.” She drank it quickly and then filled it again.

June Loblolly

June Loblolly touched the gold necklace around her neck. Elaborate scrollwork was wrapped around amber cabochons. “What a beautiful necklace,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

“It’s been in my family for generations. It was handed down to me by my mother who got it from her mother. It’s always handed down to the oldest daughter.”

“It does look ancient,” Mrs. Twiggs said, admiring it.

I took a deep breath. From the kitchen, I could smell the cardamom baking. All about her mansion, fresh flowers adorned nooks and crevices. The sweet fragrance of gardenias wafted through the air mixing with the cardamom spice. We followed her into the dining room. Mrs. Loblolly laid out a beautiful table for us adorned with crystal vases full of exotic flowers. We took our places. June brought in a tray of fresh-baked bread and jars of preserves. As she twisted a jar open, I smelled the lingonberries. Mrs. Loblolly was the Mrs. Fields of preserves. Unlike the other ladies in the Biltmore society, June did not marry into a fortune. She built her own wealth through hard work and determination.

Mrs. Twiggs bit into the bread. “This is so good. I should sell this at my shop. Would you share the recipe?”

Mrs. Loblolly sat back in her chair, her gold bracelets dangling. “I’m afraid I can’t share the recipe. It’s an old family secret.”

Abigail placed a plate full of bread and preserves on the floor for Tracker and Pixel. Pixel growled at Tracker who jumped away from Pixel as he ate with an urgency, his whole body shuddering.

I stared at the necklace. I had seen an illustration of one similar in a book. “June, I’m sorry to obsess about the necklace but I’ve never seen you wear it before,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

“I’ve kept it in a safety deposit box but as of late I felt the need to wear it,” she said, touching the largest amber stone.

I remembered where I had seen the necklace. Elizabeth had a book of mythology. She had warned me that the lines between reality and mythology were blurred. This necklace belonged to the Norse goddess Freya who had sacrificed her love to obtain it. Odin had cursed her to walk the earth searching for her lost love. Her tears falling onto the earth turned to gold and into the sea, the tears became amber. The humans drew from pagan mythology, taking from it their own glimpses of the truth, but the actual truth was still sprinkled there into the stories there for the finding. June’s witch mother, Freya, appeared to me during her reveal. This was her necklace. June did not know the power that the necklace could wield. As with all the ladies I’d dole out knowledge by the spoonful rather than by the cup.

“June, we have visited all your sisters but one,” I said. “The coven has begun closing.”

June dabbed at the jelly drop on her lips with her lace napkin. “How may I help?”

“Your blood once flowed through the Vikings. Your witch mother, Freya, was their guide to Valhalla.”

“I know the history of the Vikings and the mythology.”

“Yes, most are bedtime stories but Freya was real. She was a powerful white witch of the north. In these dark days to come, we will need a guide to lead us. That is your power.”

“I understand.” She gave a knowing smile.

As Abigail relayed our conversation to Mrs. Twiggs, I could see Mrs. Twiggs nervously fidgeting in her chair. “Abigail, ask Mrs. Twiggs what’s wrong?” I said.

As she did, Mrs. Twiggs turned to me. “Terra, I thought you told us that the ladies were all Wiccans and they had untapped white magic powers that would make an arsenal against the black magic. It seems like their powers are just emotional. Now you’re saying June is going to be our guide. What does that mean?”

“Abigail, tell Mrs. Twiggs that all Wiccans have basic potion and spell casting powers. They have limited abilities to read minds, summon spirits. They can be taught with spell books and potion recipes but there is a much deeper strength within them. All those powers flow from their true light. June’s true light is that to guide whether it is from one world to the next or deciding a path of less resistance it doesn’t matter. The point is we are going to call on her when we question how to move forward.”

Mrs. Twiggs stood and walked around the table. I could tell she was upset. My exact reason for doling out teaspoons of knowledge. Wiccans and humans have no idea of the powers that exist in the worlds and within them themselves.

June reached up and grabbed Mrs. Twiggs’ hand. “Beatrice, sit. This is a lot for all of us to take in. I’m sure Terra has a plan.”

Mrs. Twiggs settled down, reaching for another slice of bread and slathering the preserves. She sighed.

At that moment, it struck me. “Abigail, which way did we drive to arrive here?”

Abigail thought for a moment, “North, I think.”

I ran to the window and gazed out. Mrs. Loblolly’s house was located true north on the coven’s circle of homesites. True north, which is the direction, we travel in times of uncertainty. All the Wiccans would meet here at Mrs. Loblolly’s. They would be drawn to this home.

June reached into her apron pocket and retrieved a brass compass. She placed it on the table. “My grandmother gave this to me. She told me that, in times of trouble, head north.”

Wanda Raintree

It was nearly 9 p.m. when we arrived at Wanda Raintree’s home, an expansive log cabin overlooking the Biltmore Estate. My companions and I were exhausted but the urgency to train the Wiccans drove us forward. Once inside, Mrs. Twiggs fell asleep by the roaring fire. The interior of the massive cabin was decorated with Cherokee family heirlooms. On either side of the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace were two 10-foot tall windows, adorned with dreamcatchers. Agatha Hollows had made dreamcatchers for the mountain folk. Two versions, one to catch good dreams, the other to repel nightmares. I had noticed that both of Mrs. Raintree’s dreamcatchers were to ward away nightmares. This worried me.

Abigail looked over the collection of knives in a glass display case. “Those belonged to my husband,” Wanda explained. “Much of these heirlooms were from his family. They were from Cherokee. His grandfather was a shaman.”

“How long have you been having nightmares?” I asked.

Abigail sat down in a chair next to Mrs. Twiggs. “How do you know she’s having nightmares?”

Wanda glanced up at the dreamcatchers. “My husband placed those in the windows. There are more over our bed. My doctor says the nightmares are from the Ambien. I have trouble sleeping. I thought the dreamcatchers were silly but he believed in them. The dreams have gotten worse as of late.”

“Tell me about them.” I said, fighting the heaviness taking over my eyes.

Wanda closed her eyes, opened them, and poured herself a cup of coffee. I thought it strange for someone who had trouble sleeping to drink caffeine this late. She heard my thoughts. “As of late, I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to dream.” She settled on the couch next to me unconsciously rubbing her hand along my back. Tracker and Pixel fell asleep by the fire. “It begins the same. I’m walking through the woods. It’s a beautiful spring day. I’m walking down a path. I suddenly realize I’m dressed in a tear dress.”

“What’s a tear dress?” Abigail whispered.

“It’s a Cherokee dress made at the time when the Cherokee were forbidden scissors so they had to tear the material from larger pieces,” Wanda said. “The path leads me into a large field with early spring corn. I reach down and touch a stalk. It grows over my head and fills with corn. As I walk along the rows touching the tops of the stalks, they all grow. I look up at the sun as a dark cloud crosses over. It’s not a cloud, it’s crows, thousands of crows descend onto the corn tearing and ripping. Then they turn to me, tearing my dress, tearing the flesh off my bones, pecking at my eyes. I wake up screaming.” Her coffee cup jingled on the top of the saucer as her hand shook.

Abigail sat down next to her and put her arm around her. “Wanda, your witch mother is the goddess Elihino,” I said.

Wanda looked up. “Yes, I know who she is. She is the earth mother, one of the sisters of the trinity. Her sister Sehu, the goddess of corn, and Igaehinvdo, the goddess of the sun. Eliniho accepts the seeds of corn and blesses the harvest. After my reveal, I realized what my nightmares were about. She was calling to me to protect the harvest from the black magic, to protect my sisters but I don’t know how.”

“Lie down on the couch.”

“Why?”

“Please just lie down.”

Wanda did as I asked. I climbed up on the back of the couch, looking down on her. “I want you to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep. I don’t want to sleep.”

“Trust me, Wanda, your sisters will be there for you.”

As Wanda closed her eyes, I sang to her the song Agatha Hollows sang to the Appalachian children when they had nightmares. “Let your thoughts drift softly on the midnight winds.” As I sang, I saw the tension in her face release, her breathing slow. I called out to Caroline Bowers and then I entered Wanda’s dream. I watched her walking into the cornfield. From the other side of the field Caroline walked toward her. From each corner of the field came a Wiccan. Wanda stopped and stared up at the sky. Not a single crow flew overhead but just one great horned owl circled. Wanda’s eyes popped open, a smile on her face.

“I will teach you what herbs to plant around your sisters’ homes, how to bless them. I will teach you all I’ve learned from Agatha Hollows who knew the Cherokee ways. Their power is great in these mountains. The tears they shed bless the ground we walk on now.”

Wanda took me in her arms and hugged me crying, tears pouring down her face.

The Study

Complete darkness. I can hear voices. I smelled the dusty tomes. Abigail was speaking to the curator inside the Biltmore Estate. Mrs. Twiggs had arranged for her to have access to George Vanderbilt’s personal study where the curators kept the history of the estate, personal items of George Vanderbilt, his memoirs, and artifacts not typically seen by the public. As a volunteer, Mrs. Twiggs knew the staff at the estate and much like the rest of Asheville had, they welcomed her into their community. Abigail thanked the young woman for allowing her into the library. I could hear the click of her sensible shoes on the parquet floor and the door closing behind her. Abigail opened the flap of her backpack. I jumped out onto an oak table.

“What are you looking for, Terra?”

“Anything we can find about the opening of the Fillmore, any memoirs, notes, books dating to the 1880s when Vanderbilt began building in Asheville. And the woman Wesley spoke of. Her life and that of the ladies of the Biltmore society are tied to these woods.” This was my first visit behind the velvet rope of the Biltmore. Although not as ornate as the rest of the house, this study still showcased the intricate detail of this magnificent estate. Mahogany shelves floor to ceiling encased the entire room, a spiral staircase stood in one corner, a Zulu wall mask hung on one wall next to a 17th century bronze Buddha, each souvenirs from his travels. On his desk sat a cast iron replica of his grandfather’s first ship, which launched the family fortune.

Abigail ran her finger along the spine of several books, stopping to pull one off the shelf. She read the title aloud,” “Domestic Medicine, or Poor Man’s Friend, in the Hours of Afflication, Pain and Sickness.”

“I know that book,” I said. “We spent many hours with Dr. Gunn when he was writing it. Agatha Hollows shared her recipes with him and he with her. Dr. Gunn believed that medicine should be demystified. He wrote his practical guide for folks who didn’t have access to a medical doctor. Agatha Hollows would smile politely and patiently as she listened to his modern ways but when one of the mountain folk got sick they would come to her.”

Abigail flipped through some pages and then set the book back in its place. She climbed up the spiral staircase, up to the catwalk pulling books out at random, flipping through their pages. I walked around the desk. There was a scent that seemed out of place amongst the exotic woods, linseed oil, leather. It was a very old scent. Mrs. Twiggs had told me many times how Vanderbilt was a scholar of mysticism and the occult. His wife hosted séance salons on Thursday evenings, often inviting dignitaries from around the world. I could sense the remnants of those séances seeping through the halls, lost souls like Wesley who refused to move on.

“Terra, I found something.” Abigail flew down the stairs holding a small leather-bound volume. “Look.” She opened it. “It’s his secretary’s journal. It has a list of contacts for the opening of the Fillmore hotel. It says there is to be a big gala on October 31.”

“All Hallow’s eve,” I interrupted her. “All Hallow’s eve dates back to the Celtic festival of Samhain. It marked the end of summer and the beginning of the dark cold winter. The Celtics believe that on All Hallows Eve, the night before their New Year, which starts on November 1. On that night, the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. It is the night when they believe the ghosts of the dead return to earth. They believe that the Druid and Celtic priests could predict the future on this night.”

I could hear Abigail’s goose bumps popping. She continued reading, describing the dinner and dance according to the detailed instructions handwritten in the notebook. The evening’s festivities were to conclude with a séance led by Madame Claire Renee from New Orleans.

“That name is not familiar to me. Is there anything else about her?”

“No, just a grocery list of sorts that Vanderbilt dictated his secretary, requirements for accommodations and her carriage. This is interesting. She wants a midwife on call.”

“Let me see.”

Abigail placed the journal on the coffee table. I pawed through the pages, reading past the menu for the dinner, the seating chart. The last page held several unusual requests by Madame Claire Renee, including bound twines of oak, ash and thorn. Abigail read with me, “Was she a witch, Terra?”

“That’s yet to be discovered. She was, however, trying to unveil someone’s true light someone who was also an honored guest at the hotel.”

Abigail pulled out her iPhone; I could see her Google Madame Claire Renee, 1880 New Orleans. “There’s nothing about her.”

“No you won’t find any information on Madame Claire Renee. Renee is a witch’s word for seeker. It was her alias.”

“Why would George Vanderbilt, the wealthiest man in the world, request Claire Renee, a medium when he could have hired the world’s greatest ghost hunters?” Abigail showed me another book she had found titled “There is No Death” by Florence Marryat and another book “Spirit World.” “This Marryat seems to have written the book on summoning spirits.”

I knew all about summoning spirits. I had attended some of the Vanderbilts’ séances, watching from the shadows, hoping I would connect with some of my coven. I had met Miss Marryat and not thought much of her. “Miss Marryat believed spiritualism was a religion much like the other mediums of that era Maria Hayden and Emma Harding Britten. All of them set standards for the British National Association of Spiritualists. All of it nonsense. George Vanderbilt was a practical man, a mechanical man, that’s why he hired the brilliant Olmsted. He would not have hired a spiritualist. He would have hired someone who considered spiritualism a science like Arthur Conan Doyle or Lewis Carroll or Kipling even Elizabeth Barrett Browning. They all believed that the resurrection of the spiritual body could be achieved in a séance using the scientific method. Such a man as the brilliant scientist, Sir William Crookes, is the type of man George would have hired. Crookes discovered thallium. He was convinced about the reality of spiritual phenomenon. He devised all sorts of machines to capture spirits and contain them. He was a member of the ghost club. None of his devices worked, of course. A spirit can’t be captured or caught with gears and vacuum tubes. A spirit is an electrical impulse. Energy cannot be destroyed only changed. When your energy, your life force, leaves your physical body, it transforms into pure light. George Vanderbilt would not be easily fooled by smoke and mirrors. He’d want hard evidence. He’d want scientific research. There were many charlatans in his age, looking to peek into the next world. Claire Renee may have known how to open the window. At least George thought she could.”

Abigail carefully turned each page of the brittle journal. “Is there anything else about Claire? Or about the night of the opening?”

“Nothing about Claire but there are some notes from an earlier entry. On September 2, Vanderbilt met with some of the arborists.” Abigail stopped and glanced up at me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Vanderbilt met with a Mr. Foret.”

“Yes, that must have been one of Lionel’s relatives who came up from Louisiana during the yellow fever outbreak. Abigail, go get the curator,” I urged her. “Ask her if there is a ledger for the workers. There must have been records kept of staff.” I waited under the desk. Abigail returned shortly with the young woman who had left her into the private study. She placed a large ledger on the desk and said, “As you can see, there are thousands of entries. They kept extensive records of every employee, including all the day workers as well every piece of material used.”

“What’s this line here? Railroad ties?” Abigail asked.

“That’s an interesting story. George Vanderbilt hated trains and everything to do with them. He thought them large and dirty even though that’s how his grandfather made his fortune. Cornelius Vanderbilt borrowed $100 from his mother when he was a kid. He bought a rowboat and started ferrying people across New York Harbor, which became the Staten Island Ferry. After building a successful steamboat monopoly, he turned his attention to railroads. He bought small lines, connecting them. Before Vanderbilt, it took passengers 17 different trains to go from New York to Chicago but he made it possible by one train line. When they started bringing material for the Biltmore, George insisted that he didn’t want a railroad but the architects convinced him he had no choice. He agreed on the condition that the railroad be immediately removed after construction,” the curator said.

“Here this is the name I was looking for--Foret,” Abigail said.

“Yes, Foret started as a day laborer. You can see from his pay which reflected that of a common worker. I noticed this before. His position changed after his first year working with Olmsted. Mr. Olmsted must have thought highly of him to promote him so many times and his pay steadily increased.” The curator ran her finger along the lines of the ledger. “First class steamship fare for Mr. Foret, Mr. Olmsted and several others to Ireland. Olmsted took him along to pick out saplings for Biltmore Forest. This was a great honor. Mr. Olmsted kept a close circle around him when it came to important projects.”

“Anything else about Foret?”

“He had a house in Biltmore Village, rent free, with some of the other artisans. That’s really all there is. If you really want to know more about Biltmore village, ask our Mrs. Twiggs; she’s the expert.”

Abigail thanked the curator for her help while I snuck back inside her backpack. “What do we do now?” Abigail whispered to me.

“We go see Mrs. Twiggs.”

The Reckoning

Mrs. Twiggs greeted us at the door. Pixel flung his paws around my neck, biting me. I had gotten used to his exuberant greeting. Tracker circled around Abigail, wagging his tailless butt and whining. Both were still a bit angry about being left behind. I couldn’t chance concealing two of us in Abigail’s backpack. Tracker wasn’t pleased either. He did not like to let Abigail out of his sight. I was amazed at how attached he had become to her in such a short time. “So, Abigail was it a success? Did you find what you were looking for?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

“Everyone was very helpful. Thank you for hooking me up,” Abigail said.

“Why don’t you come in? I’m closing up. We can have an early supper and you can tell me what you found out.”

Pixel followed Mrs. Twiggs into the kitchen, his swinging belly scraping the floor. I would have to be sterner with him and with the humans who constantly met his demands for food. Mrs. Twiggs returned with a tray loaded with melted cheese sandwiches. She placed them on one of the larger café tables and then went back to the kitchen to retrieve soup bowls steaming with homemade tomato bisque. Pixel reached his paws to the edge of the table just able to peek over the top to see the gooey Gruyere cheese melting over the freshly baked French bread. “Me hungry,” Pixel said.

Mrs. Twiggs must have learned some cat because she immediately gave Pixel a taste of her sandwich. Abigail threw down her backpack and plopped down on the wooden chair across from her.

“Oh, I almost forgot, silly me,” Mrs. Twiggs said leaping out of the chair with a surprising agility for a woman of her girth. She came back carrying two bowls, which I could smell to be tuna fish. She placed them on the table. Pixel leapt onto her lap and then somersaulted onto the table devouring his bowl before I could even start. I eyeballed the deep red bisque with homemade croutons floating across the sea of goodness. My memories told me it would taste good but my feline craving drew me to the tuna fish. I truly hated being a cat.

Abigail ate her sandwich occasionally dipping it into the bisque. Mrs. Twiggs waited patiently until she could wait no longer. “Abigail, dear, have you had enough?”

“Yes, thank you Mrs. Twiggs.” She folded her napkin in her lap. “Your curator friend was very helpful. She let us into George Vanderbilt’s private study. We found his secretary’s notebook detailing the planning for the opening of the Fillmore hotel. Vanderbilt invited a medium from Louisiana, a Madame Claire Renee.”

“That name sounds familiar,” Mrs. Twiggs said, bustling off through the kitchen. I could hear her footsteps going down the rickety wooden stairs into the basement. She returned momentarily, wiping away cobwebs from her face and shoulders. She placed a small leather-bound book on the table in front of Abigail, and opened it. “This building we’re in was originally a boarding house for some of the artisans.” As Mrs. Twiggs recounted what she knew, I found myself drifting off. This was another part of my feline being. I was often sleepy. Pixel leaned his warm body against mine, his belly rumbling in soft purrs.

“Nothing,” she closed the book with a thud. I jerked my eyes open to hear the rest of the conversation but it was no use. I gave into the sleep.

“This day of our lord the 30th of October, 1692, we call this trial to order. Honorable Magistrate Jonathan Goodall, Sr., presiding.” The small public house was standing room only. I could smell the anger. I hid in a corner. In the first row, Jonathan Goodall Jr. sat quietly staring straight ahead at his father, nervously checking the time. Any minute his beloved would be dragged in. From the back of the overcrowded room a door flew open. Two men dragged Elizabeth by her arms, bound in chains. Her beautiful dress torn and dirty. Her hair matted and tangled. “Witch, witch,” the crowd spewed venom at her as she was dragged before them. Elizabeth brushed against Jonathan as they dragged her to the front. They chained her to the witness bench. All around me the village folks, most friends at one time of Elizabeth’s--people she had known all her life, people she had treated with her compassion and skills--turned on her as they shared stories of her evil doings. All of them lies, a spark that spread burning through the town. Elizabeth was the source of all their bad fortune.

“Quiet, quiet.” Jonathan Goodall, Sr., raised his hands, settling the mob. Elizabeth showed no fear. She stared blankly at her accusers. She knew the outcome was inevitable. She would not give them the satisfaction of a single tear. “Elizabeth Oakhaven, you have been charged with practicing witchcraft, sorcery and consorting with the devil. How do you plea?”

Elizabeth was silent.

“Your silence confirms your guilt. Speak up now if you wish to live.”

Cats can’t cry. It’s not in their physiology. I tried, Angry as I was at Elizabeth for turning me into what I was, I still loved her deeply. My mind raced with all the scenarios of how I could save her. If I only had some magic left. The crowd became louder, chanting, “Burn the witch. Burn the witch.”

“Quiet, quiet,” Jonathan Goodall, Sr., commanded, banging his gavel.

Then Elizabeth spoke. “Will you grant me my choice of death?”

The good people of Salem shouted, “No.”

“Quiet, let her speak,” the magistrate said peering over at her over his glasses.

“You put all my friends, innocent children, young girls to the fire. I wish to be hanged by the neck until dead so as the last sight I see are my dear friends and neighbors as I leave this world.”

The courtroom became dead still. At that moment I knew Elizabeth’s spirit would move on. There was still hope for me. If she was saved from the real death, the fire, only her body would be lost. I would find her. Elizabeth gazed at her love, her only love. With tears in his eyes he opened his mouth to speak, but what could he say to persuade his own father--who was killing the mother of his grandchild he would never know. For whatever reason--whether the conviction in Elizabeth’s voice or what witch power she had left in her--the magistrate agreed to her request.

As they dragged Elizabeth out, she stopped before reaching the door and turned her head quickly, staring right at me.

She read my mind and saw everything. The water rushing around me in the cave, my transformation, all of it. My childish anger was gone replaced by the great love I had always held for her. She smiled as she was pulled toward the door. Jonathan Goodall, Jr., rushed to her side, “Wait,” he urged the guards. He grabbed Elizabeth by the arm. “This is your last chance. Save yourself.”

Elizabeth bent her head near his ear and whispered. Then they took her away.

As I woke, Mrs. Twiggs was still thumbing through the pages of the book she brought up from the basement. “No mention of Claire Renee but I know I saw that name before. The best way to find out more about here is to check out the other shops. Most of the business owners can tell you the history of their building,” I heard Mrs. Twiggs say as I yawned. “Some of the stores will be open late. We can walk around now.”

I stood up, stretched and followed Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs down the uneven cobblestone sidewalk. Some of the stones were sharp and cut into my paws.

We stopped at the first cottage, now home to a dress shop. Its exterior bore a similar resemblance to the Leaf & Page. While some design elements varied, all the cottages were constructed from brick, stucco pebbledash and wood timber so as to recreate Old World charm in this idyllic New World town.

Pixel and I waited outside the shop. Tracker followed Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs. Ashevilians allowed dogs complete access. I’ve never seen a community that valued dogs as much as Asheville. We walked up and down the block, watching them speak with each store owner. As it grew dark, Mrs. Twiggs sat down on a bench in front of the jewelry store. “I’m sorry, all. I’ve gotten a bit worn out. Perhaps we can start this over tomorrow.”

The jeweler stepped out on to the small brick porch about to close up for the night. “Just one more,” Abigail said, darting up the stairs to talk to him. “Excuse me?”

The old man turned around. “I’m sorry, miss, I’m closing up.”

“Actually I didn’t want to buy anything. I wanted to ask you a couple questions if I could.”

“About what?”

The old man peeked over Abigail’s shoulder at Mrs. Twiggs who was waving at him. He recognized her and waved back. “Have a seat,” he said to Abigail.

They sat on the small wooden bench on the front porch. “I wondered if you could tell me about this building, a little of its history.”

“Oh, of course. You know it’s one of the original cottages. The local doctor lived here. I’ve got some photographs and some of his medical journals we found in the attic when we were restoring it.”

“Could I see them?” Abigail asked.

He unlocked the door. Abigail waved to us to follow. They walked into a small parlor off to the side of the showroom. I laid down behind the sofa and listened in. Abigail paused to study the photos on the wall by the front door. Some depicted the construction of the village. She stared at one showing children gathered on the village green. The old man turned, “That’s from the day when Teddy Roosevelt came to visit. The man who lived here was Dr. Zachary Rytera. He moved here from Boston because his young son had breathing issues. They came for the clean air. After his wife died, he and his son lived above his office. The rest of the rooms were rented out to the construction workers.”

“I’m trying to find information about a Claire Renee or Randall Foret,” Abigail said.

He reached next to the couch and pulled out an old leather doctor’s bag. Inside was a notebook. “He kept very extensive notes on all his patients. If Claire or Randall lived in the village, more than likely at some point they were patients of Doc Rytera.“ He skimmed the handwritten pages. “Here’s a note about Claire Renee. The doctor treated her for burns.” He read silently. “Oh, oh dear. She died during childbirth. Complications from the fire at the Fillmore. I have some more photographs. Perhaps she is in one of them.” He placed a stack of old photographs on the coffee table and then he said, “Excuse me for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he left the room, I jumped onto the coffee table and pawed my way through the photos until I found one of several people sitting around the dining room table. One of the men resembled Lionel. Sitting next to him was a beautiful young woman who was the spitting image of Elizabeth. I found another photo of her, a close up revealing a golden amulet around her neck, its entwined oaks scrolling around a full moon--Elizabeth’s amulet. It had been handed down to Elizabeth on her wanding day and she never took it off until she gave it to her newborn daughter. The old man returned to the room. “Did you find anything?” he asked.

“This is her.” Abigail held up the picture.

He looked in the doctor’s notes. “Wait a minute. I remember reading something about a young woman.” He thumbed through the pages and read aloud. “Mr. Vanderbilt has asked me to board her until her accommodations at the hotel have been secured and make her welcome. There is something peculiar about this young woman. Randall Foret has taken a special liking to her. It caused quite an uproar in the community whereas I have no ill will toward the freed slaves. In fact I find Mr. Foret to be a gentleman and I hold him as a friend. Others in the community, however, are outraged by the mere thought of these two being associated together. Talk has spread of Miss Renee’s condition and that association.”

“Is there anything else?”

“There’s a letter from Foret dated some years later.” He skimmed the letter. “It says he is established and of good health. He has recently married and his wife has born him a son. The girl, Claire’s daughter, Isabella, is living with him. It appears they moved back to Louisiana.” The old man took his glasses off and closed the book. “Many of the cottage owners took in boarders while the hotel was being completed, but they were segregated. Mr. Foret must have been an important man to be allowed to have lived here.”

The lights in the room flickered. I felt a chill, the fur on my back raised. Then the lights flickered again and then went out. One by one the streetlights exploded, sending shards of glass onto the cobblestone. I ran out to see Mrs. Twiggs covering her face. Pixel and Tracker hid under the bench. Every store on the block went dark. The only light was the crescent moon filtering through the gabled rooftops. From above the trees I could hear the flapping of wings and a bloodcurdling screech. Tracker ran to the porch and circled Abigail growling. Pixel leapt on top of me. “What’s going on?” Abigail screamed.

A burst of air flooded the street, sending off car alarms, snapping off side mirrors like they were twigs. The sound was deafening. Mrs. Twiggs covered her ears with her hands. Tracker howled. The storekeeper screamed above the roar, “It’s a tornado.”

But I knew different. The reckoning had found us.

We Become Nine

We spent the night huddled around the hearth in the cabin. Mrs. Twiggs joined us. I thought it safer to be out of town at least for the night. We were safe for the moment surrounded by the stream and the power of Agatha Hollows. She had known this day would come so she had fortified her plot of land with every ounce of magic she had in her. Abigail shook, not from the cold but from the realization that there was nowhere for her to run to. She finally understood what I had been trying to tell her. That we draw the battle line here in Asheville. Mrs. Twiggs was sound asleep with Pixel on her lap and Tracker lying across her feet. I felt no such comfort. Sleep eluded me. I recalled my last dream of Elizabeth. The dream I had a thousand times. I had learned through the centuries that dreams hold meaning. The meanings of this dream, however, eluded me. The images flooded around my head like wild finches feeding on thistle. Flashes of color and constant movement but always in the same sequence. My dreams followed a pattern of my life starting with the night of my turning and ending with the worst part; the snapping of Elizabeth’s neck. I did not need that dream tonight. I did not want it. I could see Mrs. Twiggs tossing and turning in her rocking chair. She, too, had uneasy dreams. Abigail stoked the fire and sipped her tea, a very strong ginger and nettle combination. We sat quietly throughout the night, staring at the fire, not saying a word.

It was now predawn. Darkness of night before the light. That time of morning where you sit and reflect on your life and the choices you’ve made. Then Abigail spoke, “Why can’t you stop this, Terra?”

I turned and looked at her. “When I turned, I lost all my powers.”

She stoked the fire again. “How do we fight this thing, Terra?”

I wished I had an answer for her. The reckoning had come more quickly than I had expected. The coven was not complete.

Abigail sat back down, tapping her foot rapidly. Then she gathered some kindling for the fire.

I had sensed our ninth Wiccan was in Asheville but I could not sense her. As dawn broke, I allowed my eyes to close, a quick catnap I thought, laughing to myself: Catnap. Seconds later I opened them to see Pixel an inch away from my face. He whispered, “Terra, look.” He turned around. A puff of white smoke rose from the fire and surrounded Mrs. Twiggs. Her eyes flew open. She sprang from the rocking chair and floated to the ceiling of the cabin, her arms outstretched. I smelled the bundle of ash, oak and thorn Abigail had thrown in the fire. Mrs. Twiggs floated down and stood in front of us. Her aura shone bright white and amethyst purple. I had never seen those two aura colors together. Mrs. Twiggs was a very powerful Wiccan. She smiled as though a shadow had passed from her. She put her hand on Abigail’s shoulder. I understood now what Abigail had figured out on her own. Black magic had kept Mrs. Twiggs from turning in Asheville. Our coven was complete.

Mrs. Twiggs

“Mrs. Twiggs, can you understand me?”

“Terra, your voice is as I had imagined it. The voice of a young woman.”

“I was 17 when I took this form.”

“I don’t understand. Why can I hear you now? Why do I feel so strange?”

“The night you drank the potion that should have made you turn, a spell was cast over you to prevent your turning. The black magic surrounding Asheville knew you would be our ninth Wiccan and allow us to close the coven. It had to stop you, but when Abigail burnt the oak, ash and thorn it revealed your true light and the good magic of this place allowed you to turn,” I told her.

“All these years I felt like there was something missing from my life. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve led a good life. I had a wonderful family and a wonderful husband but I felt there was more purpose to me. I feel that now.”

“The reckoning came for you last night in Biltmore Village. It came for all of us but I think you were its purpose. It wanted to stop the completion of the coven.”

Mrs. Twiggs warmed her hands by the fire. I noticed the snow-white streak in her raven black hair. She stepped lightly almost gliding as she walked. She stared into the dying embers. “Terra, there’s a black witch in Asheville.” She turned from the fire. Her eyes flashed brilliant opal white filled with milky clouds. She stared into the distance and spoke as if in a trance, “She walks among us yet we don’t see her. She helps the black magic. She wants to kill all us all.” Then her eyes cleared and filled with kindness. I knew she had the power of premonition but she had not learned how to use it or understand how far in the future she was seeing. It could be 100 years from now or the present. Until she learned how to control it, I couldn’t be sure of her prediction.

Mrs. Twiggs exhausted from the turning sat back down in the chair and Pixel jumped in her lap. “Mrs. Twiggs, you rest. I will fix us all some breakfast and we will come up with a game plan,” Abigail said.

I followed Abigail to the kitchen. She loaded the stove with firewood and put some salted bacon into a cast iron skillet. She waited for the sizzle. “Abigail, how did you know Mrs. Twiggs was a Wiccan and what to do?”

“I don’t know, Terra, I felt like I had to do something. I watched you burn the twigs for the other Wiccans.”

It was enough of an answer for now. I could tell how worried Abigail was. I felt responsible. I opened this world of magic to her. Maybe if we had never met the reckoning would never have come for her or maybe this was the time we were all meant to be brought together. Witches believe in fate. Each person, Wiccan or witch is responsible for his or her actions. Those actions determine our fate. We all walk a path to a conclusion but we can still vary from that path. We all arrive at our final destination. Abigail, Mrs. Twiggs, Pixel, Tracker and myself. We are pebbles tossed into the water, the ripples have been set into motion and cannot be called back.

We sat and ate our breakfast, each lost in our personal thoughts. After breakfast, we headed into the woods to gather herbs for the coven closing ceremony. Now that we were nine we would have to swear the oath of allegiance, the same I had recited with Elizabeth and my sisters. Wiccans are witches, what’s true for us is true for them. Some witches look down upon them, thought them half-breeds, mongrels but their magic can be just as powerful. Tonight I will recite the ritual Elizabeth taught me. We will close our ranks, latch our powers together. We will protect Asheville, and more than that, we will save Abigail’s life.

Mrs. Twiggs explained many of the herbs to Abigail as they collected them in their baskets. She was well versed in Appalachian folklore and understood the medicinal properties of the plants. Elizabeth had told me that the actual ceremony and reciting of the vows were steeped in tradition, more than actual magic. She said by all of us coming together it made us feel connected, a part of a sisterhood greater than ourselves. She said the only way to defeat black magic is through love and self-sacrifice, caring more about others than yourself, that’s the most powerful magic of all. On the surface, the ladies of the Biltmore Society did not seem to hold those values; they seemed quite self-absorbed. If we were to close the coven, they would have to let go of that thinking. The herbs we were collecting would help them with that process. There are only two ingredients that matter. Agatha Hollows had planted mushrooms for such an occasion, part of her Cherokee heritage—peyote--the only ingredient in the potion that actually worked besides a very rare tealeaf. The rest were placebo. Once the ladies drank they would lose their inhibitions. “Terra, come here,” I heard Mrs. Twiggs call from the meadow that ran alongside the stream.

She stood in a field of wilted milk thistle, black and decaying, rancid smelling. Agatha Hollows had planted this crop to treat liver problems. “No good, no good,” Pixel said. I climbed up the tree and looked out over the meadow, which ran for a good half mile into the valley. All I saw was destruction and decay. Finches and thistle, I thought. My dreams had been filled with songbirds. Mrs. Twiggs gathered up some of the dead thistle. She explained to Abigail, “It looks like all the nutrients have been drained out of them. Usually thistle grows in good soil unattended.”

I smelled the dirt. It smelled foul. I followed the path out of the meadow up the side of the mountain. There was black fungus on the birch trees, the elm showed sign of elm disease, all the trees surrounding the cabin were in distress. Scattered in the field lay hundreds of dead yellow finches. I ran back to Mrs. Twiggs and Abigail. “We must hurry. We must hurry the ceremony.”

Karen Owen

“Karen Owen, that’s her name but you must let me do all the talking,” Mrs. Twiggs said as we hurried down a back alley in the Montford district. I shivered as we passed through the cemetery. “On occasion, Mrs. Owen sources very rare exotic teas for my shop.”

“What do you mean?” Abigail asked.

“Karen had a shop of her own in Vancouver many years ago. She was what is known in the tea world as a tea sommelier. In fact one of the best in North America. But she’s a bit eccentric. She’s very temperamental when it comes to her tea talk.”

Abigail turned to me and asked. “And we need this tea for the ceremony?”

“Elizabeth was insistent,” I told her. “The ritual goes back thousands of years. It has changed through the centuries as it was passed down. The Celtics and then Druids believed that in order for the ceremony to work the potion needed to break through the blood brain barrier, the membrane that separates the brain from the blood flowing around it. It protects the brain from harmful substances but in this case to bind the coven we must break through that barrier to unite one mind, one body.”

“And this tea leaf helps with breaking through that barrier?” Abigail asked, shifting Pixel in her arms. He had insisted on coming with us.

“That’s what Elizabeth told me. I only know the night I drank the potion, the night of the ceremony, I felt that I was no longer an individual but a part of a greater whole. I think it wise not to vary from that potion.”

“Here we are.” Mrs. Twiggs stopped in front of a long walkway leading up the hill to a yellow Victorian with a wraparound front porch and a large tower in the center. Two iron gargoyles guarded the entry, I felt their stare as they let us pass. The front walkway was adorned with toothless jack-o-lanterns and colorful fall mums. As we stepped closer, I could see the fine scrolling details milled into the woodwork. I had been here when the craftsmen worked on this house back in the 1890s. By the front door leaned what I imagined Mrs. Owen thought were witches’ brooms with crooked and bent hickory handles and straw bottoms tied with twine. A brass plaque next to the front door read, “Owen House Bed and Breakfast.”

“This is on the Asheville historical registry. It was originally owned by one of the head arborists of the Biltmore Estate,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

As Mrs. Twiggs explained the history of the home, Pixel and I stared at the man rocking in the chair at the end of the porch. He was dressed in a frock coat. At first I thought he was one of the Halloween decorations but then he removed his pocket watch, clicked it open and wound the stem. I glanced back at Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs. Neither one could see the man.

Mrs. Twiggs rang the doorbell. The heavy oak door swung open. Before us stood a beautiful dark-haired woman with luminescent white skin, her dark blue eyes sparkled with recognition. She smiled and shook Mrs. Twiggs’ hand. “Karen, thank you for seeing us with such short notice.”

“Not at all, I’m quite intrigued by your ask, Beatrice. Please come in.” We filed into the hall, which still had its original mahogany floors and large columns separating it from the parlor. The original crystal chandelier dangled, illuminating the dark wood and an intricately scrolled grandfather clock chimed the top of the hour. She seemed neither bothered nor alarmed by two cats following the humans into the house. Her black and white cat on the other hand was not pleased to see us. The creature hissed and swiped a paw at Pixel, who ran and hid behind me. “Stop this nonsense, Squirrel,” Mrs. Owen said. The creature hissed.

The black and white cat looked at me and said, “Squirrel.”

“You’re not a squirrel, you’re a cat,” I told it.

“Squirrel is my name,” the cat repeated.

“Very well then this is Pixel and I’m Terra. We’re friends.”

Squirrel pranced around Pixel sniffing tentatively and then stopped, rubbing its head against Pixel, who fell to the floor laughing. The two took off running up the wide staircase. Mrs. Owen noticed the ruckus and bent down staring me in the eye. She lifted me off the ground. “This is a pretty girl,” she said over her shoulder to Mrs. Twiggs. “Terra, is it?” she asked looking at me.

I fell silent. How did she know my name?

“You look like a Terra,” she said this without moving her lips.

I screeched and wiggled out of her grip. I ran up to the top of the stairs. She smiled up at me and then returned to talking to Mrs. Twiggs. “Bea, I think I have what you need. It’s not quite exact but depending on your purpose it may be sufficient. “ Mrs. Owen knew the purpose of the tea. Of that I was sure. They walked into the parlor and sat in front of the fire. I looked about the room from my vantage point. It had remarkably not changed much since its construction. Some of the furniture was original, I thought. A face pressed against the windowpane near the front door. It was the rocking chair man watching me watching Mrs. Owen. He wasn’t the first ghost I had seen in Asheville but something about him troubled me. I found my courage and quietly walked down and settled on Mrs. Twiggs lap by the fire. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Karen, this is Abigail. She‘s staying with me.”

“Oh, family?”

“Of a sort,” Mrs. Twiggs replied.

“This is a beautiful house you have,” Abigail said.

“Thank you, dear, I bought it when I moved to Asheville. I had to do a lot of restoring to return it to its original glory. Mrs. Twiggs has been a tremendous help; researching records and old photos to make sure everything is period correct. We both share the love of the leaf. Speaking of which.” Mrs. Owen jumped up and ran out. She returned with a small wooden box. I recognized the engravings on the lid. They were Druid. She turned the box toward Mrs. Twiggs and opened it slowly. I could smell the essence of blueberry, a very rare tealeaf found on a small Indonesian island. Elizabeth had brought some with her from Ireland. “How did you find this?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

Mrs. Owen slapped the lid shut and smiled. “I have made many connections throughout the years in the tea world.” I began to understand who or what Mrs. Owen was. She was a witches’ apothecary. Mrs. Twiggs had not known it but she was drawn to Mrs. Owen for that purpose.

In our village back in Salem we had such a woman who could procure specialty herbs that were not native to the Eastern Seaboard. She traded with pirates and Native Americans, as they are now known. Mrs. Owen was neither a black nor white witch but a witch she was. She traded in needful things, each having a price greater than its worth. She knew what the tea was used for: one purpose and one purpose only, a coven binding ceremony. My unease about the rocking chair man was well earned. He was different than the other ghosts I had met as he was bound to Mrs. Owen. I wondered what need she granted him. The thought frightened me. She smiled down at me letting me know she understood that I understood. “Karen, thank you so much, I can’t tell you what it’s for. Let’s call it a personal favor for me,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

Mrs. Owen smiled. “You know you must be quite careful. It’s a very strong leaf. You must dilute it before drinking. Ten parts hot water to one.”

“What do I owe you for this?”

“Nothing but perhaps a favor.”

“Of course, anything I can do.”

“Let’s keep it for another time.”

“Thank you so much.” I leapt off Mrs. Twiggs’ lap and ran up to retrieve Pixel. I found him and Squirrel rolling down the upstairs hallway. “Pixel, we must leave.”

“Squirrel, me like Squirrel.”

“Yes, Squirrel is very nice, Pixel, but we must leave.” I felt the urgency to leave the house. Mrs. Owen knew me and with familiarity comes great risk.

Mrs. Twiggs hugged Mrs. Owen in the doorway. She and Abigail started down the steps. Pixel behind. I heard a voice behind me. The rocking chair man stood next to Mrs. Owen. She crouched down and whispered in my ear. “Be careful tonight. The reckoning is coming for you.” The door swung open and she lifted off the ground, flying backwards into the house. The door slammed shut. The rocking chair man walked along the porch lighting the candles inside the jack-o-lanterns. As he touched each pumpkin, a black vein of decay spread over the skin. The toothless grins shriveled up into themselves, I ran from the porch.

The Circle

I stood in the center of the circle. The Asheville nine held hands. Abigail walked the circle, with a tray of potion. Each of them took a sip and nodded their head at Abigail as she continued to the next. The harvest moon was a brilliant orange; illuminating the woods behind the cabin. Thousands of stars gazed down with an approving twinkle. I had chosen this spot for the closing of the coven because of the mountain ash that grew on the north corner of the field. Elizabeth had told me once that the humans follow the North Star when they are lost and that witches follow their spirit tree which is always true north. I had not understood the reference but the urgency of this night compelled me to heed her advice. I felt lost, lost in this body, lost in this world, lost in this time.

Pixel and Tracker watched quietly. I could see the fear in both of them. The only true measure of bravery is to be afraid and yet not to waver. I knew that neither one would waver this night. I spoke, “Ladies of the Biltmore Society, hear my words, tonight one becomes nine and nine become one.” As I spoke, I watched their pupils glow red. It had begun. “You must swear tonight by this full moon that from this moment on you will use your powers only for good.” As I spoke, I could see shadows in the shadows gathering. I glanced up at the sky, a dark cloud covered the moon, blocking out the light. “You will recite after me the seven incantations of the coven,” I said. “Only for good shall we use our powers, kept secret in shadows and midnight hours.”

As they repeated the words back to me, my head began to ache. “Sisterhood joined never bond to break.” The ground shook under my feet. I felt that I was slipping into a vision. “Our bond is eternal, eternal our fate.” A wind gust shook the trees, and a loud roar filled my head. “We vow to hold sacred both nature and man.” I had to scream to be heard above the cawing. Like leaves falling on a blustery October, thousands of crows descended upon us from the tree branches. Their yellow soulless eyes looked into me. The circle broke as the ladies fell to the ground covering their faces. I felt myself lifted off the ground. I could smell the wretched breath of the foul creature. I reached up and scratched it across the face, causing it to release its grip. I landed on the ground with a thud. Tracker circled Abigail, biting, nipping and stomping on any crow that pecked at her. Pixel ran to me, covering my body with his. “Me save Terra, me save Terra.” I could hear the crows tearing into his flesh.

As I glanced up, I could see a murder of crows lifting Mrs. Tangledwood off the ground, struggling with her weight. I yelled to her. She turned her head. I could see the insanity taking her, the absurdity of what was happening to her. They carried her over the treetops and disappeared over the ridge into the darkness. From the north, the owls ascended. Great horned, barn, white, all the keepers of the forest. They tore into the crows thrashing them to pieces. Then they were gone. Our circle was broken. Mrs. Twiggs lay on the ground, bloody and shaking. The rest righted themselves, checking their wounds.

Mrs. Twiggs screamed. “Terra, Mrs. Tangledwood. Emma, they took her.”

“Everyone back to the cabin now,” I screamed.

When all were safe inside, Abigail latched the cabin door and placed a board across it. I looked about at the scared faces, all of them waiting for words I couldn’t find. This was too much, too much for me without my powers. I was still a 17-year-old apprentice. “This is too much, Elizabeth,” I said, not realizing I spoke out loud.

Abigail retrieved the emergency medical kit and treated their wounds and hers. Pixel lay by the fire, licking blood off his fur. Tracker stood on the kitchen table, staring out the window. Mrs. Twiggs looked at me with tears in her eyes. “What are we going to do, Terra? We have to save Emma.”

“We can’t save her. She’s gone.”

“We have to find her.”

“No, Beatrice, she’s gone.”

The Amulet

Abigail and I watched Mrs. Twiggs bustle about the kitchen as she made her scones. We had tried to talk her out of opening the store this morning but she insisted saying, “it’s not what Albert would want.” She stopped and stared at his photograph. She was a woman of fortitude. Even with the nightmare of last night Mrs. Twiggs would not be swayed from her path. There was something very ancient and regal about Mrs. Twiggs. I had not seen it until she turned. She resolved herself to the fact that her friend was gone, that life needed to continue on.

The ladies all scattered to their homes, none of them speaking of the night’s events. Although tired and scared, Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs were undaunted. Abigail sat by the fire looking through one of the book of spells. In the short time, I had taught her to read Ogham she had managed to pick it up quite readily. She sat quietly flipping the pages. Pixel and Tracker lay at her feet.

Mrs. Twiggs sat down next to Abigail. “What do we do next, Terra?”

“A hundred and fifty years ago, Claire Renee came to Asheville to hold a séance for George Vanderbilt at the Hotel Fillmore. The night of the séance the hotel burned down. According to the ledgers at the Biltmore Estate, Claire requested twigs of ash, oak and thorn. She believed black magic was in Asheville and came to destroy it but the magic destroyed her. At the jewelry store, I saw a picture of Claire. She was wearing an amulet that belonged to my coven leader, Elizabeth. The doctor’s note said she never recovered from the fire and died in childbirth. If that amulet is still in Asheville, we need to find it. It’s our last hope to defeat the black magic.”

“We should go to the historical museum. They have a display on the fire,” Mrs. Twiggs said, stroking my soft fur. “Poor, Emma, she loved the museum. She volunteered from the day it opened. Poor, poor Emma.”

Emotional Support Animal

“I don’t like this. I don’t like it all,” I said.

“Sorry, dear, it’s the only way.”

“I feel like a fool.”

“It’s just for today.”

“Very well then.” I reluctantly let Mrs. Twiggs put the emotional support animal vest and collar on me. I have never worn a vest or collar yet pretended to be an emotional support animal. I don’t know which part of that sentence bothered me more. Emotional support or animal? I was meant for neither.

“Me, too. Me too, emotion animal,” Pixel said, climbing up Mrs. Twiggs’ leg.

“I’m sorry, Pixel, I could only get one vest. You and Tracker will have to wait here.”

“Terra, no go. Pixel, go with Terra.” Pixel jumped on my back and bit my neck. The collar itched.

I placed my paws on Pixel’s face and rubbed behind his ears. He purred. “I have a very important job for you, Pixel. You must guard the store.”

“Me guard store, Terra. Pixel brave.”

“Yes, Pixel, you’re the bravest cat. No, you’re the bravest being I’ve ever met.”

Pixel bit my neck and then jumped up into the front window to keep watch. Tracker stayed velcroed to Abigail. She looked down and whispered in his ear. Tracker laid down underneath the front window by Pixel, letting out a soft moan.

We climbed into Mrs. Twiggs’ Volvo and headed to the museum. I sat on Abigail’s lap on the passenger side, watching the buildings fly by. We arrived at the Smith-McDowell House, home of the Asheville Historical Museum. Mrs. Twiggs burst into tears when she saw Emma Tangledwood’s name on a brass placard hanging in the entryway. I was very familiar with the house as it was Asheville’s oldest residence. I was here when it was built but I had never been inside. Drying her tears, Mrs. Twiggs explained to Abigail, “The Smith-McDowell House was once home to mayors, civil war majors and friends of the Vanderbilts. According to legend, it is the most haunted house in Western North Carolina.” I wondered if Mrs. Twiggs realized her shop was haunted but that was a story to tell her another day.

She parked on the street and walked up the steps between the white marble pillars. Wandering in, we flowed through the exhibits including one on the native landscape. Abigail read the plaque of the first exhibit out loud, “William Wallace McDowell, was born in 1823 in Burke County, which is now named McDowell County. He came to Asheville in 1845 and married Sarah Lucinda. They acquired the house and moved in in 1858. They had 10 children. In December 1859, in response to the raid on Harper’s Ferry, he organized a local volunteer company that became known as the Buncombe Riflemen and later joined as an officer in the Confederate Army.”

As Abigail read, I recalled meeting McDowell several times while he patrolled the area around Agatha Hollows’ cabin. Some of the soldiers stole food from her gardens and some of her livestock, claiming to procure it for the war effort. Agatha Hollows who had been driven out of Cherokee, North Carolina, held little love for soldiers on either side. The soldiers lived to regret it.

The next exhibit was dubbed the Gilded Age, when the country’s uncrowned aristocracy flocked to Asheville for relaxation and leisure. “Alexander and Elizabeth Garrett bought the house from McDowell in 1881,” Abigail read. “The family had originally emigrated from Ireland to America and amassed a sizeable fortune in the Midwest.” As we walked along the exhibits, we came to a display case with a plaque that read, “The fire at the Fillmore Hotel.” There was a picture of the hotel’s exterior with Wesley standing proudly as guests entered the beautiful marble entryway. The display also held several china plates that were rescued and a ledger. Abigail strolled along, cradling me in her arms. “Stop, Abigail, stop.” I pressed my face against the glass. I blinked what must have been several times. In the display of jewelry hung a gold amulet with the oak and blood moon, Elizabeth’s amulet. “What’s wrong, Terra?” Abigail asked.

“That amulet. That’s Elizabeth’s.” I stared at it and then gazed at the pictures spread throughout the exhibit. In one picture was the woman Claire wearing the amulet. “Let me down. Let me down.” I ran and hid underneath an armoire.

“What are you doing?”

“Just go. I’ll wait here until the museum closes.” I hissed at her with the patience of a cat. I thought about the last time I had seen Elizabeth wearing the amulet. It was the night she gave birth. She had handed it to Jonathan to give to her daughter. As the last curator turned off the lights and locked the door, I crawled out of my hiding place. I stared up at the amulet. For more than 300 years, I had searched for Elizabeth without a clue and here I was not more than a mile away from her amulet.

“Terra.” My blood ran cold as I heard my name behind me.

A white apparition floated down the spiral staircase. I could sense it was a kind spirit. The room smelled like magnolia blossoms, a fragrance I knew from my travels in Louisiana searching for Elizabeth. It was no more than a mist, a vapor but I could make out the form of a woman. “Who are you?” I asked.

“You should know me, Terra. Blood knows blood. You’ve come here for the amulet. My mother’s amulet.”

“Claire? Are you Claire Renee?” I paused. “Goodall.”

The apparition floated to the ceiling. “I was at one time. Like you I was drawn to Asheville. There’s great magic in these woods. Black and white. Now I cannot leave. It holds me. It took my body.”

“Who took your body?”

“It took my body as it took my mother Elizabeth.”

A shadow passed between us. The smell of magnolias was replaced by the rancid smell of decaying flesh. “You must go, Terra, it comes.”

I pounded on the display case as hard as I could. “Go, Terra, run, Terra, run.” Claire’s voice sounded like Elizabeth, so many years ago. I looked above the display case at the lantern that hung overhead. Another item rescued from the Fillmore fire. I leapt onto the case and up to the lantern. Swinging and pulling as hard as I could. I could feel the tether giving. Finally it and I landed with a crash, smashing the glass. I grabbed the amulet in my teeth. As I ran to the front door, something grabbed my tail and pulled me back. My fur smoldered, my flesh began to burn and then the front door burst open. Mrs. Twiggs stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing red, shining a flashlight to drown out the darkness and light up the room. “Back and keep the darkness. The light repels you.” I felt the grip release me as I ran to Mrs. Twiggs who turned and followed me as I ran down the sidewalk.

Revelation

Mrs. Twiggs and I sat by the fire at Leaf & Page. Besides the cabin, it was the only place we felt safe. She poured herself some tea with a shaking hand and placed a warm saucer of milk on the side table for me. “Mrs. Twiggs, how did you know?” I asked.

She put her teacup back on the saucer with a rattle and then took a deep breath. “Terra, I had a vision. I saw everything before it happened. I saw it.” She shivered. “I saw Claire Renee, and I saw the creature that keeps her prisoner. I saw you in danger.”

A sense of urgency overtook me. “Where’s Abigail? Is she safe?” I asked.

“She’s upstairs sleeping. She didn’t feel well.”

“What about the amulet?” Mrs. Twiggs pulled it out of her pocket and placed it next to her saucer.

“I’ll explain later,” I said as I ran up the stairs, I leapt onto the bed. Tracker looked up, started to growl and then realized it was me. He laid his head back down. Pixel never woke. I kissed Abigail’s forehead and felt the heat. I took her blanket in my mouth and rolled it down slowly. Her skin was laced with fever blisters. I ran and got Mrs. Twiggs.

She took one look at Abigail. “I’ll call the doctor.”

“Human medicine won’t fix what’s wrong with her. Gather the ladies,” I said.

It was almost midnight by the time all the ladies arrived. We stood around Abigail’s bedside. Gwendolyn Birchbark placed her hand on Abigail’s forehead, asking for mercy and compassion to help heal Abigail. Caroline Bowers sat on the edge of the bed. The full moon spilled through the bedroom window illuminating her. “Terra, she’s in her fever dream. I can’t reach her,” she said.

Each lady summoned what powers they had to help bring Abigail back from the black magic that held her. Mrs. Twiggs entered the room, carrying a teacup. She placed it on the nightstand next to Abigail. “Terra, I searched all the spell books and this is the only remedy I could find for Abigail’s symptoms. You were right. Her life force is being drained out of her.”

I pulled the sheets back. The fever blisters had turned black and crusty. They now covered more than half her body. She was melting away in front of us. Mrs. Twiggs held Abigail’s head up, trying to force her to sip the tea. It did not appear to make a difference. She tore a piece of the bottom of her dress off, soaking it in the tea and rubbing it onto Abigail’s lips. “Terra, I don’t know what to do.” She laid her hands on Abigail’s heart and spoke a healing incantation in Gaelic. Abigail stirred and moaned. Her breathing grew shallower.

From the foot of her bed, Pixel cried. Tracker moaned. “I am a cat,” I screamed. “I am a useless feral alley-dwelling creature. I am not Terra Rowan. I am not a witch.” I leapt off the bed and crawled downstairs hiding in a dark corner. “Elizabeth,” I whispered. “You have done this to me. You should have let me hang next to you or even more so burned in the final death. I cannot help her.” Pixel flew down the stairs, yelling loudly. He slammed into me.

“Not now, Pixel, Stop your folly.”

“Pixel sad, so sad.” His eyes turned as he caught the gleam of the silver chain dangling from Abigail’s backpack. He pounced on it, flipping to his back, passing it from paw to paw.

“Stop it, Pixel. Abigail is upstairs dying. You play like the foolish cat you are.”

Pixel cried and flipped over, pulling the pocket watch out of the backpack. It sprang open.

“Look what you did.” I said with anger. His orange saucer eyes gleamed. “You’ve broken it.” I stepped over and pawed the watch, breaking it open. Inside the back cover I saw the initials JGJ. I thought of Salem, I thought of the courtroom and Jonathan Goodall, Jr. checking his watch. Abigail’s family heirloom which was stuck at 3, the black witches’ hour, the hour that Lionel and Bryson were murdered, the hour that Abigail’s parents were taken from her. I grabbed the amulet, carrying it upstairs and placed it on Abigail’s chest. If she was who I thought she was, its power would save her. Nothing happened. No magic was left in the amulet or me.

I felt hopeless and sat with the others while we watched over Abigail. We each took shifts throughout the night. I held little hope for the dawn. I glanced around at all the ladies, seeing the sadness in their eyes. What a fraud I am, they must think. If I can’t save Abigail, how can I save any of them? I am just a cat. I went out into the alley. This was my life. There was no hope of ever finding Elizabeth, of ever becoming my true self again. My only link to my past a powerless golden amulet from the woman who cursed me to this life and cursed her daughter to be trapped between worlds. This alley is my home, my final destination. I settled down by the dumpster and let sleep take me. In the morning, I would leave this town forever.

With a rush, I was startled awake. I felt myself being lifted off the ground and thrown in a sack. I scratched and hissed to no avail. I was thrown down and could hear the clank of a car trunk closing. I banged, knocking against the sack and the hard metal of my transport. The car hit a bump and I banged my head inside the trunk. I saw stars and then the dark took me.

I awoke. I was still trapped in this canvas sack. I clawed and bit at it. My captor tied the bag closed, sealing me off from the light. I could smell the sulfur from the match strike and then the smoke from the fire. It was the true death I had escaped over 300 years ago.

“No,” I heard a scream and then I felt myself lifted out of the fire. The bag opened. Abigail was standing over me, holding a bloody silver knife. I gasped for air, my eyes were burning from the smoke. Ashes and sparks flew into the night as Abigail picked me up. “Terra, are you OK? Your fur is singed.”

“Abigail, how, how are you here?”

She pulled the amulet out from under her blouse. “My grandmother, Claire, came to me in a vision. She told me how to find you, Terra. She told me I’m a witch. The reckoning took my mother, Isabellla, and my father. Only I was saved. This tattoo.” She paused. “My father used to call my mother Tinkerbell. I never knew why I was so drawn to the fairy.”

I gazed behind Abigail. Claire Renee glided up. She had taken the form of her former body, a beautiful woman who looked like Elizabeth who looked like Abigail. She smiled. “Now that Abigail has the amulet, my light is released,” Claire said. “Keep my granddaughter safe, Terra Rowan.”

“Claire, what is the reckoning?” I asked.

“There is great magic here--black and white. I came to destroy one and preserve the other but the black magic was too strong. If you can’t control it, it will control you.” Then she rose into the sky and disappeared into a burst of white light.

“I wounded it. I know I did. I looked right at it but I couldn’t see it, Terra,” Abigail said.

All Hallow’s Eve

Mrs. Twiggs called a meeting of the ladies of the Biltmore Society. I needed for them to understand the peril they were in and the circumstances that brought them to it. “Servants of the reckoning killed Lionel and Bryson and almost killed me,” I said.

“Today is Abigail’s 18th birthday, her wanding day,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “The only chance we have to protect ourselves is for Abigail to turn. She must find her wanding tree. For that reason, I believe we were all brought together. Somewhere here in the Biltmore Forest is her spirit oak.”

Mrs. Bowers stood up. “You told us we needed to be a coven of nine, a closed coven. There are only eight of us left. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”

“We’re still a coven. We’re still a family. We will watch over each other and use our special powers to fight the reckoning,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

I walked over to where Abigail was sitting. “Do you feel better? Your fever’s broken,” I whispered so only Abigail could hear. “It’s up to you. You have the Oakhaven bloodline. Only you can save them, save all of us. Even a closed coven of nine could not protect us. We need you.”

Abigail squirmed in her chair. “I don’t want this, Terra. I don’t want this responsibility.”

“Your great-grandmother was a very powerful witch. Perhaps as powerful as the old ones. You can do this, Abigail. I will help you.”

Abigail smiled. “How do we find my spirit tree?”

Tracker jumped from the front window where he was keeping watch and sat in front of Abigail. Then he let out a bloodcurdling howl. The ladies held their ears. “This is how we’ll find your tree, Abigail. Abigail, hold our your hand.” As she did, I extended my paw and pricked her finger.

“Ouch, what are you doing, Terra?”

I grabbed her hand and put her finger under Tracker’s nose. He breathed the scent in, the scent of old blood and old magic. He howled and ran to the front door. Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs grabbed their coats and some flashlights. I turned to the ladies. “Tonight on All Hollow’s Eve, the veil between worlds will be lifted. Leave all the lights on. Put candles in the windows. Lock the door behind us. No matter what happens do not leave this room. Stay in your circle and concentrate all your powers. Concentrate on Abigail’s fate. Let your spirits follow us into the woods.”

We jumped into Mrs. Twiggs’ Volvo. Pixel, Tracker and I sat in the back. Tracker paced back and forth, whining. He had the scent. He stuck his head out the window and let out a low moan. “Terra, how do you know the tree is in Biltmore Forest and not a hundred miles from here?” Abigail asked from the front seat.

“It was something that your grandmother said to me in the museum. She said she was drawn to Asheville and to the woods. Something in her bloodline drew her to this spot. That same magic brought you here. I’ve never seen any spirit tree draw a witch as powerful as this beacon has brought you. It must be very old.”

“Olmsted brought oak saplings from Ireland,” Mrs. Twiggs interrupted. “Mr. Vanderbilt believed they were descendants of the Druid’s oak orchards.”

“The Wiccans of the Biltmore Society settled in a coven circle surrounding this forest. The tree is here,” I said.

“This whole forest was built on mysticism,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

Tracker stuck his head out the window and howled. Mrs. Twiggs slammed on the brakes. I flew forward. Pixel tumbled to the floor. We stopped at the guard shack of the entrance to the Biltmore Estate. “Terra, it’s almost 11,” Mrs. Twiggs yelled. Mrs. Twiggs drove through the secret gate on the side and wound around the forest road, her headlights barely illuminating the path in front of us.

“Abigail, we have to find the tree before the New Year. It must be on your 18th birthday.”

Mrs. Twiggs turned the engine off. As she opened the back door, Tracker flew out and disappeared into the woods, Abigail called after him. “Follow him,” I said. We ran in front of the humans, Pixel faster than I. We could see Tracker, a flash of red and white, in the dark, slaloming through the trees. He stopped in an orchard of bamboos. Pixel ran to him. I followed. Pixel turned, panting. “Tracker, something wrong. Tracker, not good.”

Tracker fell to the ground on his side, his back legs trembling. I looked up the towering bamboo trees to see hundreds of crows perched on top of the great stalks. I smelled the air, a wicked wind whistled through the branches. The dark magic was stirring. The reckoning was near. Pixel nuzzled Tracker. “Tracker, get up. Tracker.”

I saw flashlights dance behind us. I called out, “Mrs. Twiggs. Abigail.” They ran toward my screams. Abigail sat on the ground and put Tracker in her lap, rocking him. She looked up with tears in her eyes. “What’s happening, Terra? What’s wrong with him?”

Abigail clutched the amulet hanging from her neck. It glowed at her touch as I had seen it do for Elizabeth. Mrs. Twiggs stood silent, something was wrong. Her eyes turned, flipping over until all I could see was the white. She held her arms outstretched and lifted off the ground, into the trees, into the bamboos.

“Abigail, you must find the tree. It’s the only way,” I said. “Pixel, stay with Tracker.”

Pixel looked up with his orange saucer eyes, his eyes full of love and anger. Anger for the darkness that was taking his friends. His brave heart beat louder than the oppressing wind. “Me stay, Terra, me stay.” He lay across Tracker’s chest.

“Abigail, come. We must go now.” I said. We fought the wind pushing against us. Abigail screamed over the howling. “I remember Hurricane Katrina. My mother blown away by the winds and the waters. Trees bending, snapping.” She yelled over the noise.

She picked me up and turned face to the wind and pushed forward. “Terra, I don’t know which way to go. I’m lost.”

I screamed. “Head north. Your tree will be north.”

Abigail pushed on, branches snapping and tearing at her clothes and face. She held one hand out slapping the deluge of debris and clutched me with her other. And then above the wind and the snapping branches I heard Abigail sing. She sang her great-grandmother’s song, the song of my coven. The words that were sung by the old ones. The words of love, compassion and sacrifice. The wind stopped. Abigail collapsed to the ground. “Terra, it’s near. I can feel it. My tree is near. It’s calling to me.” Abigail scooped me up and ran. Her feet barely touched the ground, fearless and knowing. Even I couldn’t see through the complete darkness of the center of this maze of old growth. My head began to spin, the vertigo was taking me. The voices spoke. Elizabeth spoke. “Terra, my family’s spirit tree is the mother of all oaks. Its branches hung over the old ones. Its leaves rustle beneath the feet of the earth walkers. Its bloodline is our bloodline going back four times. I love you, Terra, I will find you.”

When I came to, Abigail was breathing heavily, leaning up against a massive oak. Its branches spread a hundred feet in all directions and a hundred feet more to the top. Its roots smelled sweet like freshly cut grass. Abigail hugged the tree, spoke to it in a whisper. She turned to me, “Terra, what do I do?”

Before I could answer, it appeared. Space and time around it blurred and twisted. A vortex of darkness, their shapeless forms glided through the trees, snapping them like toothpicks. Then it took the form of Mrs. Tangledwood. Abigail grabbed me and held me tight. I screamed, “Don’t listen to it, Abigail. Block it from your mind. It will try to confuse you.”

Abigail began to shake. Her eyes rolled back into her head. I leapt from her arms and ran toward Mrs. Tangledwood. I screamed. “I know your name. I’m not afraid to speak it. “

A graveyard whisper filled my head with a familiar voice. “Speak it, Terra Rowan.”

The form of Mrs. Tangledwood gave way to a swirling darkness. Standing before me, my dearest of all my sisters, Prudence Thornwood. “Terra, it is too strong for you. You must submit.”

“Prudence, no.”

“Terra, I had no choice. It filled my mind with pride and envy. It promised me great wealth and power.”

“No, Prudence.”

“Elizabeth didn’t love us. She kept the book for herself. Its powers are endless, Terra. I had to tell the secret, Terra. The book possessed me. It possessed me.”

“You are not my, Prudence,” I cried.

Her face contorted, her master spoke. “Terra Rowan, join us or die the true death.” It lifted me off the ground. I turned to see Abigail arms outstretched slowly rising up the tree, her back bent. A branch cut her hand wide open, the blood dripped down her side to her leg.

“I fear you not,” I said. “You are but shadows and mist.” I found myself, flying through the air, landing with a thud against the base of the tree. I felt something wet on my fur. Abigail’s blood soaked the fur and the ground around me. The tree shook. Roots snapped out of the ground and drank Abigail’s blood with a thirst. The darkness approached us. Abigail screamed. I could hear the oak tree snap high above us, a branch landed in Abigail’s hand. She fell to the ground. She kneeled and looked up at the approaching swirl of darkness. Then she glanced at the branch in her hand. “I fear you not. Darkness fear the light. I am Abigail Oakhaven.” She raised her wand. An explosion of white light lit up the forest and rippled out through the treetops.

A primordial guttural voice yelled in agonizing pain. And then it was gone. Abigail turned to me. Her hair silver white, her skin glowed in the dark. She knelt down and scooped me up and hugged me. She rocked me. Near us, Mrs. Tangledwood lay on the ground, the color gone from her face. Her once raven hair gray. She raised her gnarled hand. “It promised me life, Terra. It promised me power.” She pulled the book from under her cloak. “It lied to me. I’m sorry.”

“I know, Emma. The book controls those who can’t control it. The ancient magic reaches out through the pages. It lied to my dear friend Prudence and possessed her the same way it took you. She came to Asheville to destroy the Oakhaven spirit tree, to end the Oakhaven bloodline but the bloodline continues. Prudence died in the fire but the book cannot be destroyed. Emma, how did you come upon the book?”

“In the ashes of the Fillmore. I wanted to leave my legacy, to restore the Fillmore but when I found the book, I had to have it. I didn’t mean to kill Lionel or the boy. I had no control.”

“I know, Emma. Sleep now,” I said. Emma’s eyes closed as she let out one last breath.

Pixel and Tracker ran up to us, knocking us over. Tracker licked Abigail’s wounds. Pixel grabbed me, threw me onto the ground. “Terra, OK? Terra, OK? Me save Tracker.”

“Yes, you did. You’re the best familiar a witch could ever have, Pixel.”

Pixel smiled.

Mrs. Twiggs stood on the edge of the fallen trees. Her light shined around her, a brilliant purple and white. She had been thrown into the abyss and returned stronger. She hugged us all. When she released the hug, she knelt down next to her dear friend and moaned, “Emma.” Mrs. Twiggs went to grab the book.

I screamed. “Stop.”

Abigail knelt down and picked up Elizabeth’s book of spells, etched on the cover, the barren oak tree with a blood orange moon over it. As she touched the tree, the crest came to life, illuminating her surroundings. Tree branches writhed like in a storm. The book flipped open, written in blood I could see Prudence Thornwood, 1692; Emma Tangledwood, 2017. The book snapped shut. Abigail tossed it into her backpack.

Pixel said, “Go now? Me hungry.”

Epilogue

I watched Mrs. Twiggs baking the morning scones. She looked over her shoulder with a smile. “They’re not going to bake themselves now, are they?”

Pixel begged for crumbs, reaching up Mrs. Twiggs’ leg. Abigail sat by the fire, Tracker on her feet. “Oh, dear, look at the time,” Mrs. Twiggs said, as the cuckoo clock struck seven. She stopped in front of Albert’s photograph. “Good morning, dear,” she said.

“Good morning, my love,” Albert Twiggs replied.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning journalist Vicki Vass turned in her reporter's notebook to pursue her passion for mystery writing. Her first series, Antique Hunters Mysteries, was a finalist in Mystery & Mayhem. Her travels to Asheville and the Biltmore Estate inspired this tale.

Vicki has written more than 1,400 stories for the Chicago Tribune as well as other commercial publications including Home & Away, the Lutheran and Woman's World. Her science fiction novel, The Lexicon, draws on her experience in Sudan while writing about the ongoing civil war for World Relief.

She lives in the Chicago area with her husband, writer and musician Brian Tedeschi, son Tony, Australian shepherds Atticus and Tracker, kittens Terra and Pixel, seven koi and Gary the turtle. For more about Vicki, vickivass.com.

Books by Vicki Vass

Antique Hunter Mysteries

Murder by the Spoonful

Pickin’ Murder

Killer Finds

Key to a Murder

Neighborhood Watch

The Postman is Late

Gem Hunter

Science Fiction

Eleven: 1