this…” She lifted the wand and waved it. I could swear sparks flew through the air in the wake of the tip. “Is my item. We can use other items. For instance, this pentacle”—she reached inside her shirt and withdrew a necklace with a star surrounded by a circle—“helps me to focus and call spirits, though traditionally it’s the item of an earth witch.”
She dropped the necklace and lifted the book, turning it so I could see inside. Handwriting filled the page. At the top I read: Spell to See into the Past.
She positioned the book so she could see the spell, tapped it once with the wand. Did it glow? Then she lifted the mirror, reflective side facing away, took my hand, and pulled me close.
“Together we look into it, okay?”
“Am I gonna fall through the looking glass?”
“Let’s find out,” she said, and flipped it over.
Chapter 19
“They come,” Raye whispered.
We stood in the shadowy corner of a one-room cottage—thatch roof, stone walls, rough-hewn furniture, fireplace that doubled as a stove. If this wasn’t 1612, it was doing a damn good imitation. In the distance, wolves howled.
“They’ll never get here in time,” Raye continued.
“In time for what?”
She pointed to the room’s inhabitants. A man, all in black—clothes, hair, even his eyes—stared into the darkness beyond the slightly cloudy pane of a single window.
“Darling,” he murmured.
“Sweetheart,” the woman answered.
Her equally dark hair spread over the blue and orange tartan clasped around the shoulders of the gray dress. She held the large skirt wide, as if she were about to curtsy. Perhaps it was the orange streaks in that tartan that made her eyes shine like emeralds. I’d only seen eyes like that once before.
“Pru,” I whispered.
“Yes,” Raye agreed with equal softness. Though Pru didn’t hear us and neither did—
“Henry?”
Raye nodded.
The door burst open, and men clothed in black filled the room. A tall, pale, angry fellow strode in after them. The flames reflected at the center of his eyes lent him a satanic appearance.
“Roland McHugh,” Raye said. “Chief witch hunter of King James.”
He jabbed a bony finger at Pru and she spun toward the three cradles that had been shielded by her skirt. Three men snatched the children within and carried them out the still-open door.
“No!” Pru cried, and a crockery bowl fell off the table, shattering against the floor. She ran after the children, but before she reached the door, two minions snatched her arms and escorted her out. Several more led Henry along behind.
The next thing I knew Raye and I were in the yard. My ears whistled as if a sharp wind had blown by. Those not occupied hauling the inhabitants from their home had been busy building a pyre. From the looks of it, they’d done so before.
“More than one soul in a womb is Satan’s work.” McHugh’s lip curled as he contemplated the infants. I could only see the tops of their heads—one blond, one red, one dark. “How many lives did you sacrifice so your devil’s spawn might be born?”
Henry and Pru remained silent as their captors lashed them back-to-back against the stake, then formed a circle around them. Two lackeys appeared with torches.
The witch hunter removed a ring from his finger and a pincher from his wool doublet then held the circlet within the flame until it glowed. He pressed the red-hot metal to Henry’s neck.
I choked on the scent of burning flesh, flinched at the horrifying hiss. Raye took my hand, lacing our fingers together and squeezing tight.
The livid image of a snarling wolf remained behind on Henry’s flesh. “Are you mad?” he asked.
“Sometimes the brand brings forth a confession.”
“Shocking how pain and torture makes people say anything.”
“It did not make you.” McHugh jabbed his ring back into the flames; his gaze slid to Pru.
“I did it,” Henry blurted. “I sold to Satan the lives of your wife and child to bring forth our own.”
“Of course you did,” McHugh agreed.
“What’s he talking about?” I asked.
“Pru is a midwife,” Raye said. “One of the best. She’d never lost a patient. Until she lost McHugh’s wife and child.”
“How did that happen? I thought she was a witch.”
“Some things can’t be healed. By the time that jerk-wad fetched her, his wife had lost far too much blood, and the child was already dead.”
McHugh pressed his ring to Pru’s neck. She stiffened until the stake creaked. I tightened my fingers on Raye’s until they crackled.
“White ring of fur,” I whispered, thinking of Pru the wolf.
“Yes.”
Lightning flashed, and