Page 44 of SIN Bone Deep

My bedroom door shook, and I heard Nova call out my name.

“Get out of here! Warren Jackson! I know it’s you, and I’m reporting this to the police,” Callista’s voice rang out from the front door, sharp with anger and fear. “They’re on their way!”

“Shit,” one of the men exclaimed. “Let’s get out of here before the cops come.”

“They won’t come,” another snorted. “Not to the fucking Vossen witches.”

“Fuck! Where did you come from!” A third man exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you… Oh fuck. Fuck!” was a shriek and there was a car door slamming and engine revving before one of the cars tore off down the driveway.

“Craig!” One of the men yelled in fury. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“What scared them…” I glanced behind me to Ender, but he was no longer there.

“Nyx!” Nova’s tugs on the door were insistent. The men piled into the second car and followed the first down the drive as I crossed to open the door, and Nova tumbled into my arms, crying. “Why didn’t you answer the door?” She wailed at me in distress.

“I’m sorry,” I was instantly contrite. I had been thoughtless, and she had been afraid. “I was extinguishing the tree which was on fire…” I hugged her back as she gripped me tightly. “It’s all right, Nova,” I soothed her. “They’re gone now.”

“It’s not all right,” she sobbed. “It’s never going to be all right for us, Nyx, because we’re Vossens and they all fucking hate us!”

In her embrace, la petite mort,

To foreshadow the end

How quickly time does fly

My heart with guilt distraught

But some rules cannot bend,

And all that blooms, must one day die.

SIXTEEN

Where the rippling waters go cast a stone, the truth you'll know

– Wiccan Rede

“Let’s see,” Fennel placed a covered basket on the table, causing Nova to move her cup of tea to the side.

“What are you doing?” Nova’s eyes were red from weeping, and her cheeks were blotchy from rubbing the tears away. She sniffed a little as she cradled her tea in the palms of her hands, not yet recovered from her fright, and her anger at me for not answering my bedroom door swifter.

“Well, my dear, sometimes a witch needs to make her own solutions,” Callista told her as she placed a handful of little jars on the tabletop. I reached out and turned one. Cloves. “Drink?” She added four mismatched glasses to the table and sloshed a little of her homemade vermouth into them. “I think that we could all use a drink.”

“This one?” Fennel selected the skin of a poppet from the basket and passed it to Callista, its head, attached only by a couple of stitches, lolling back like the hood of a cloak. It was a bare template; its seams open for stuffing and no identifying features marked. I recognized the handy work as my own, one of the practice poppets that I had made the year before that hadn’t been used in the final spell, but that Fennel had dubbed too good to cast away.

“It will do,” Callista took it and inspected it, before lifting her eyes to meet mine. “Waste not, want not, hmm Nyx?” She passed it back to Fennel who happily dug into the basket selecting fabric and threads for hair.

“I guess,” I sipped the vermouth, the flavors of chamomile and juniper competing with the gentian and wormwood. My hand shook a little, the liquid running up the sides in waves, but the burn of the liquor chased the chill from my core. “This… the men…”

“Yes, Nyx?” Callista measured spoons of sage and thyme into a bowl as Fennel began to anoint cotton balls with clary sage oil and stuffed them into the head, arms, and legs of the poppet.

“They mean to hurt us,” I said softly. “They are dangerous.”

“Yes, they are. But what they put out, we send back, threefold,” she handed Fennel a clear quartz crystal and Fennel stuffed it into the core of the doll, before adding the herbs that Callista had prepared. She pulled the loose seams tight, sealing the doll’s torso, before taking up her needle and thread and stitching on the head. Very quickly her needle created eyes and an open O of a mouth. “A woman is like a teabag. You never know how strong it is until it’s under hot water.”

“Little one,” Fennel brought the doll which now had a head of messy brown wool hair. “I made you and now I give you life. I name you John Renwright. His body is your body, his breath your breath. His blood is your blood and his heart beats in your chest. His flesh is your flesh, his bone is your bone. His thoughts are your thoughts, what is his, is now your own. Your mouth is open, from it words will spill, gossip, slander, and ill will. Speak of what you’ve seen, and those whose misdeeds have been. Sage for your mind to clear so you can share all that you hear, and a dash of vermouth to encourage you to speak the truth,” Fennel splashed a little from her glass into the poppet’s mouth. “So mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” we echoed automatically.

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