The Hexed Read online

  Because it had happened again. A murder so much like Melissa’s that it gave him chills—and practically in his hometown.

  “Special Agent Crow will see you now.”

  As Rocky walked into Crow’s office, the man rose to greet him. He’d known Crow was Native American, and he wasn’t surprised the man was tall and fit. He hadn’t expected him to be quite so striking, though. He studied the man he hoped would be his boss, and he knew that Crow was studying him in return.

  “Sit down. I’ve been reading your file and the clippings that you sent about the case,” Crow said.

  Rocky sat. “And?”

  “I see that another woman has been discovered in circumstances exactly like the girl you found.”

  “Swampscott this time,” Rocky said. “Practically next door.”

  Crow looked gravely at Rocky. “You were personally involved with the original case as a teenager.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think that will affect your work?”

  Rocky hesitated.

  One wasn’t supposed to be emotionally involved in the field; it could jeopardize the ability to make the best decision possible in a tough situation.

  He let out his breath. “Yes,” he admitted.

  Crow looked back down at the file before him.

  “This woman was left just as your friend Melissa was. Arranged in a very specific position—almost as if her body was meant to create a pentagram.”

  “Five points,” Rocky agreed. “And there was a silver medallion lying on her chest—the same as in Melissa Wilson’s case.”

  Crow leaned back, stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

  “I’m assuming you’ve studied up on the Krewe of Hunters and that’s why you wrote to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And of course, we’ve studied up on you, too.”

  “I’m damned glad. I’m sure I wouldn’t have a chance here if you hadn’t.”

  Crow actually smiled. He leaned forward and said, “My boss—our director, Adam Harrison—is like a magician. It will still take me about twenty-four hours to get you transferred over. But,” he said, looking up, “feel free to head on up to Massachusetts right away. I’ll inform you when the transfer goes through.”

  He stood. Rocky did the same, and Crow held out his hand.

  “Welcome to the Krewe of Hunters, Agent Rockwell.”

  1

  Every once in a while Devin Lyle couldn’t help herself. People did such outrageous things sometimes that she just had to step in.

  She stepped forward, positioning herself a little closer to the group standing by the memorial so she could hear what they were saying.

  “Burn, witch! Burn!” a young man said. Despite his words, he was actually reverently placing a flower on the bench dedicated to one of the victims of the witch trials.

  “How horrible. I can’t even imagine burning to death,” an older woman said.

  “Excuse me,” Devin said. “None of the condemned in Salem were burned. Nineteen were hanged, and one man, Giles Corey, was pressed to death.”

  “Really?” The older woman sounded relieved. “Not that hanging must have been less than horrible, but to burn...” She shuddered.

  “Almost any tour you take in Salem is going to tell you about the victims—and tell you that no one was burned,” Devin said. They were all staring at her, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. She wasn’t a tour guide, after all. She wrote sweet, fun children’s books about a slightly crazy “witch.”

  But Salem was her home. And she hated the misinformation about it that spread far too frequently.

  “I saw it in a movie,” a kid said, nodding sagely. “They burned them in the movie.”

  “That movie took license with history, I promise you,” Devin assured him.

  “And men were called witches, too? Not warlocks?” the older woman asked.

  “Yes, they were all accused of being witches. And at the time, witchcraft was punishable by death,” Devin said. “So, if you ‘hexed’ a neighbor—just cursed him, or say you had a voodoo doll, whether there was any real magic there or not—you were considered a practicing witch and subject to execution.”

  “So they were all guilty?” someone else asked.

  “No, not all of them―you have to remember, even just saying that you had cursed someone was considered to be witchcraft. Kids would read their futures in broken eggs, and that was witchcraft, by the standards of the time. Those who were condemned and hanged refused to plead guilty, because they were innocent and feared for their souls if they did. During the hysteria, all kinds of crazy things happened. You really need to take a tour—or just start at the Witch Dungeon and get a good overview of the entire situation.

  “People were at odds politically, creating an atmosphere ripe for petty arguments. It was winter, it was bitter cold and it was, frankly, miserable. Most scholars believe that the tales Tituba—a slave from the Caribbean—told to a group of girls started them making up their own stories. And since people not only believed fiercely in the devil but that he also lived in the woods, they...” Devin’s voice trailed off, and she smiled as she saw an old friend, Brent Corbin, standing nearby. He owned an occult and souvenir store on Essex Street, and led one of the best night tours of the city.

  She could see that he was grinning at her, with a teasing light in his eyes. Brent was a little stout, but he had a cute thatch of blond hair, beautiful bright blue eyes and a great smile. He was clearly as bemused as she was by the conversation.

  Ten years ago Brent had graduated with her from Salem High. They’d fought like crazy when they’d been kids, teased and tormented each other over dating as they’d gotten older, and now—especially with her living back in Salem—they laughed over their old squabbles. It had been great to spend time with him now that she was back to town, and no way was she letting him get away without an introduction.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling. “We’ve got one of the city’s best tour guides right here. This is Brent Corbin. He owns Which Witch Is Which just over on the mall and no one—seriously, no one—knows Salem’s history better than Brent. I’ll leave you in his capable hands.”

  She waved to him, laughing when the smile disappeared from his face. But then it was back, and he shook his head in amusement as he watched her go.

  A few minutes later he sent her a text message. I’d throw you in the stocks for that—except half of them signed on for the tour tonight. Thx. See ya later.

  Devin laughed and continued on to Essex Street, where one of her best friends carried Devin’s books in her shop, the Haunted Dragon. She not only carried books, but toys and Salem T-shirts, as well as finely made cloaks, clothing and jewelry. Beth Fullway was a practicing Wiccan. She had graduated a few years before Devin, then stayed in the area and, like Brent, opened a shop. She was open from 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. daily, with two employees to help her cover all the days of the week. When seven at night rolled around, she was done. Unless, of course, it was October and they were in the middle of Haunted Happenings. In Salem, Haunted Happenings was one of the year’s biggest events—a money event. People came in droves, and all the rules changed. Stores stayed open later, and there were more special tours, historical events, haunted houses and whatever other manner of “spooky” entertainment an up-and-coming entrepreneur could imagine.

  A little bell tinkled when Devin went in; the store was about a thousand square feet, with curtained rooms in the rear where Beth and her employees sometimes did readings.

  “Hey!” Beth said, rising to greet Devin with a hug. Beth was about five-eight but so slim she appeared small. Even with Devin being an inch taller at five-nine, they had to stretch over the counter to greet each other.

  “Glad to see you,” Beth said. “I mean...now. I’m always glad to see you.” Her verbal confusion was a frequent result of her effervescent sincerity. “I have to tell you—I sold out of the last batch of your books in two days. Of course, it’
s summer and this town is teeming with kids. But still....”

  “That’s great,” Devin said. “I’m impressed—and flattered.”

  “Anyway, if you happen to have any extras, can you bring them by?” Beth asked her. “I’ve ordered more, but I could use a few to tide me over.”

  “I’ll bring my author’s copies.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  Devin looked in the display case by the counter as they talked. She wasn’t really much for costly jewelry—diamonds, platinum, elegant pieces—but she loved artistic costume jewelry. Silver. And, okay, sometimes silver with stones.

  “Wow!” she said, and looked up at Beth.

  “You’re looking at the Sheena Marston series, right?” Beth asked.

  “They’re gorgeous pieces, aren’t they?” came another voice.

  Devin looked up. Theo Hastings, one of Beth’s employees and mediums, had come from the back. He waved at the young women to whom he’d been giving a reading and smiled at Devin. He was about forty, devilishly handsome and great at his work. He was a practicing Wiccan—though Devin suspected that he was “practicing” more because it was good for his image and his work than because he believed the way Beth did. He had the right look, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders and was highlighted with just a touch of gray, dark eyes and perfectly sculpted features. And of course, he always wore black suits that hinted at the 1800s without being costume pieces. He was always nice, but she hadn’t known him all that long, and he wasn’t an open book like Beth, so Devin always kept a little distance.

  “Take that one,” he said, pointing to a gorgeous silver medallion hanging from a delicate chain, a pentagram entwined with enamel glass-green leaves and tiny stones. “Beautiful—truly beautiful. So many people come in here thinking that the pentagram is evil, but it isn’t. It even symbolizes the Freemasons, who do a lot of good things and fall under suspicion, too. Pentagrams were important religious symbols for the Babylonians, and they were also used in ancient Greece. Christians have even used the pentagram to represent the five wounds of Christ. It’s no different than the cross or the Star of David or any religious symbol. How do people get these things in their minds...?”

  His voice trailed off as he shook his head.

  “Hey, you’re asking that question in a place where ‘spectral’ evidence was considered proof of guilt,” Devin reminded him.

  “Amazing, right?” Beth asked. “A kid said she was being pinched by the astral projection of some poor old woman, and people believed her.”

  “Different times,” Devin murmured. “And sometimes I’m not so sure we’ve evolved very far. Look at the prejudices we still practice.”

  “Hey, not me,” Beth protested. “I love everyone.”

  Devin laughed. “And everyone loves you. I mean, as a species, we can still be pretty wretched. You can make prosecuting witches illegal, and we can enact laws against discrimination, but that doesn’t mean we can change the human mind.”

  “Well said,” Theo told her. “But to get back to what’s important, you should buy that piece. Your hair is so dark, a perfect contrast to the silver, and your eyes are such a deep blue—like the sapphires. It practically screams your name, Devin.”

  “It is gorgeous,” she agreed. “I may.”

  “It really does scream your name,” Beth agreed. “You have the perfect creamy skin for it, too. I’ll wrap it up.”

  “Hey, thanks for the compliments, but I don’t even know what it costs,” Devin said, laughing.

  “Not that much, really. Just bring me your books—if you have a box, we’ll wind up about even.”

  Devin laughed again. “Okay, done deal.”

  Beth took out the medallion and put it in a small box.

  “Well, I’ve got to get back to writing. I just came out to buy birdseed—which I still have to do—and wound up walking around,” Devin said. “Seems like every time I look, something’s closed and something new has opened.”

  “And we grow more commercial every year,” Theo said sadly.

  “It’s a commercial world,” Devin said lightly. “They want you to pay your power bill no matter what.”

  Beth put the box in a decorative bag and handed it to Devin. “So how are you doing with that wretched old bird?”

  “Poe?” Devin asked.

  “Other people are left cats and dogs—and your great-aunt left you a raven!” Beth said, shaking her head. “You know, I watched him until you came home after your aunt Mina died.”

  “I do, and I’m grateful,” Devin assured her. “He’s doing just fine.”

  “How the hell long do those birds live?” Beth asked.

  “I think they can get to be about twenty in captivity. Aunt Mina rescued him when he was a baby, so I’d say he’s about twelve now,” Devin said. “He’s a very cool bird. I like having company. I mean, it’s not that the cottage is so far out of town, but it seems like there are a lot of woods out there.”

  “You need a cat,” Beth said.

  “Or a dog,” Theo suggested.

  “For the moment, I have Poe,” Devin said.

  Theo set a hand on hers. “It’s been nice to see you. We’ll all have to go to dinner one night.”

  “Sure,” Devin said, smiling and quickly extracting her hand. “See you all later.”

  Her car was in the public garage off Essex, and she hurried to it. It wasn’t a long drive down Broad and out to her cottage, but it did involve avoiding crowds of jaywalking tourists.

  Parking, she studied her “cottage in the woods.” Technically, it was an old house, but it did have the white-walled, thatched-roof look of a cottage, and she was surrounded by a small forest of trees. When she had the fire going and smoke was drifting out of the chimney, it did look as if she lived in a home that belonged in a fairy tale.

  As she opened the door and stepped in, Devin found herself smiling. Poe immediately let out a loud squawk. Unlike Poe’s raven, this bird didn’t say “nevermore.” He only squawked. But he liked to sit on his perch and watch her. Sometimes—though he was nowhere near as attached to her as he had been to Aunt Mina—he would even sit on her shoulder. She didn’t mind; Aunt Mina had trained him. He kept his droppings discreetly deposited in his cage onto newspaper that was easy to replace.

  “Hey, buddy,” she said, putting down her packages and walking over to the bird. She stroked his head through the bars the way he liked. “Got your birdseed. All is well.”

  His cage was near the mantel, so she set the bag of birdseed on top while she fed him. When she was finished, she stepped back and smiled, thinking that it was time to make some changes. But it was hard. She’d spent so much of her childhood here in the cottage. Her parents had traveled frequently for work, and since Devin had loved Aunt Mina and her aunt had loved her, it had made sense for her to stay here.

  She’d loved how different Aunt Mina was from her own parents and everybody else’s—that she collected unusual and beautiful things. Once, in school, Brent Corbin had told her that if she’d just add a few more wacky family members she could join the cast of The Addams Family.

  That was okay. She’d grown up with love, both here in Auntie Mina’s cottage and in the house her parents had owned—and still owned, actually—an old Victorian near the wharf and the House of the Seven Gables. It had been rented out for years now, and it was completely different from the way she remembered it. While the cottage...

  Despite the years, little had changed here.

  Devin opened the box holding her beautiful new silver medallion and hung it around the neck of a marble bust of Madame Tussaud that sat on a pedestal near the fireplace. The bust had been made from a life mask of the tiny woman who had created so many wax images, including death masks of some of the victims of the guillotine. Aunt Mina had loved the woman because she had been so talented—and such a survivor. The pentagram suited her marble neck.

  “Guess I should get to work, huh?” Devin asked the bird.

  He
was too busy eating to reply.

  She booted up the computer. The world seemed silent. Too silent. She turned on iTunes and set the music to play randomly.

  For long minutes she actually concentrated.

  Then she heard the crying.

  It was soft and heart-wrenching—so soft, she wasn’t sure at first that she was really hearing anything at all. Next she thought it might have been part of the song that was playing.

  But then a Bon Jovi hit came on, and she knew there was no soft sobbing in that hard-hitting rock song.

  She muted the volume and listened. She was certain she heard it again. Very strange, since her nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away.

  She walked to the door and opened it—and thought she saw a woman in white disappearing into the trees.

  “Hello?” she called out. “Can I help you?”

  There was no answer. The leaves rustled as the breeze picked up, nothing more.

  “Please, do you need help?” She stepped out onto the stone path that led from her house to the road.

  No answer.

  Because no one was out there, she told herself.

  She turned and looked back at the bird. Poe was still playing with his seed, unconcerned.

  And of course, the idea that there was anyone out there had almost certainly come from the fact that she’d spent half her childhood, her most impressionable years, growing up with Aunt Mina. Not that her aunt had been crazy—unless being delightfully full of fun and life could be called crazy. But Aunt Mina had been forever telling stories—stories about leprechauns and banshees and forest folk, and the arguments that went on between the tooth fairy and Santa’s elves.

  Devin walked back in the house, trying to forget the sound of sobbing and give her attention back to Auntie Pim and the Belligerent Gnome.

  It was wonderful that her books had sold out, she thought.

  Thanks to her aunt, she not only had a wonderful place to live but she’d found her true vocation. She’d done her duty as a junior reporter, but when Aunt Mina had suggested she try children’s stories, she had sat down and written one. She’d set her sights on reaching ten-year-olds—the age she’d been when Aunt Mina had first enchanted her.