Page 1 of SIN Bone Deep

ONE

For tread the Circle thrice about to keep unwelcome spirits out

– The Wiccan Rede.

Iwoke face down in my Grimoire. It is ill-considered to sleep between two spells, but thankfully these were of the more forgiving type – a cure for freckles that involved collecting the dew fresh from dawn-touched leaves, and a spell to improve fertility. I might find myself with fewer freckles, or more, and my next period would be late I predicted as I peeled my cheek off the pages and tried to pinpoint what had woken me.

An owl called outside my window, and the hair stood up at the back of my neck in foreboding just before car headlights cut through the darkness, washing through my bedroom before casting it back into shadow.

Vossen House stands at the peak of a great cliff that overlooks the ocean, and the road up the hill connects to only a handful of the more remote properties. As if the road was a border between us and everyone else, the other houses inhabited the other side leaving a strip of prime land from the lighthouse point rolling down the hill to the old settlement, and then up to what had been known for generations as Bishop House, but for the past three decades had served as Pinegrove Academy.

There was, therefore, no way that a car would come this close to our house accidentally. They had come to us on purpose.

The owl was unsettled, taking to the air, a feather drifting down to land on the windowsill of my bedroom as the car pulled to a stop below. I opened the window, leaning out over my desk to collect the owl’s gift, and set it between the pages to counteract the negativity of having slept between them.

“I know you have her in there you fucking interfering witches. Open your fucking door,” a man yelled from below followed by the shudder of a fist against wood and glass.

I recoiled from the open window instinctively although I was a story above and safe in my room, my heart racing as he continued to rage below, the floorboards of the porch creaking and shuddering beneath his heavy-footed strides as he moved from window to window, rapping his knuckles against the glass, and continuing to yell his demands and obscenities.

I leaned across the surface of my desk to look down, but the angle and the veranda roof hid him from my sight. The car was parked haphazardly, and its lights had been left on, catching the eyes of one of my aunt’s cats as it watched him warily from within the shelter of the rose bushes.

“Fucking open up or I will smash a window!”

I hurried out of my room into the dark hallway beyond and navigated its furnishings by memory until I reached the front staircase, where light spilled up from below. I leaned over the banister to get a clear view of the front hall. It was lit by the antique Tiffany lamp on the Louis XVI hall table. Pressed against the stained glass of the front door, the man’s face was grotesquely distorted into that of a monster.

Aunt Fennel stood draped in shadows within the doorway of the library. As was her habit, she wore black, top to toe, but she was dressed for bed, modestly wrapped in her dressing gown, her hair in a braid over one shoulder, and her face clean of makeup revealing the red, gnarled burn scar along her cheek.

Aunt Callista strode from the hallway beyond the foot of the staircase towards the door, coming from the direction of the kitchen, her long silky dressing gown with its feathered edges billowing behind her, the tie slipping loose to reveal the clinging satin slip that she wore beneath it. She paused by the mirrored hat stand to apply her lipstick before opening the door, filling it with a provocative stretch of arms and the roll of her hip.

“Good evening, Warren. To what do we owe this visit?”

He was a big man, dressed in jeans and steel-toed boots, his shirt stained from a day at work and his jaw shadowed by stubble – and my aunt was tiny in comparison despite all her lush curves, but for a moment, he stared at her dumbfounded. He had expected fear and had been greeted instead by sensual allure. And then he remembered the affront that had brought him to our door, and his face hardened into rage.

“Julie has taken Sophie,” he growled down at her. “I know they’re here.”

“Oh?” Callista arched an eyebrow. “Why would they be here?”

In the doorway of the library, Aunt Fennel lit a candle with purpose, her expression intent and her lips moving in an almost silent chant.

“Candle burn, fire bright, protect those within this house tonight,” I whispered with her, knowing the spell from the shape of the words upon her lips. There was a garlic braid decoratively woven with ribbon and herbs above the door that would further reinforce the intention of the spell.

“What’s going on, Nyx?” Nova crept through the shadowy hallway and leaned against the banister with me, her hair falling forward over her shoulder to curtain her face. Her arrival drew Fennel’s eyes upward and her expression cautioned us to stay hidden.

“I don’t know,” I barely breathed the words.

“Everyone knows that you Vossens…” The man trailed off.

Are witches, I finished silently for him. He was right. We were. For centuries we had used our witchcraft in service of the women of the town. We had been their midwives, their healers. We had brewed potions for love and beauty, and tonics for ailments and malady. We had tended to sick children and helped prevent their conception. And we had always served as a place of refuge and rescue.

When they needed us, they came to our door pleading for our help. When they did not need us, they reviled us and whispered behind their hands about the Vossen witches up the hill.

“We Vossens do what? Steal wives and daughters away at midnight?” Callista’s smile was dangerous. “You are welcome to come in and look for yourself,” she stepped back, pushing the door wider in invitation. “If you wish.”

“Ah…” For a moment he teetered caught between the desire to pursue his wife and daughter and the spell that discouraged his entry. The spell won, and he stepped back. “No. No… I must have…” He ran his hand through his hair looking back over his shoulder at the car. “I must be wrong. She must have gone… Maybe she went to her mother’s?”

“Maybe,” Callista repeated, her eyes gleaming. “Well then, I’ll just return to my bed. Ta-ta, Warren.” She closed the door but did not move away, watching through the glass as he left the porch, and standing sentry until the taillights retreated like devil’s eyes into the darkness.

“He is gone,” she said to Fennel.

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