Earth Witches Aren't Easy Page 9

  I’m a loner by nature, pardon the pun. My work, my comfortable niche in life, just doesn’t lend itself to a number of good friends. Jack’s return filled a void. If I gave it more than a casual thought, it might have concerned me. I just enjoyed his presence for what it was, a welcome respite.

  Eleven

  The next few days passed as a journey back to normalcy for me. Well, as normal as it could get with Jack hanging around. I wondered if they paid him to sit around the house, read the paper, do the occasional bit of research, and follow me into the field.

  We played board games with Betty until midnight one night, and spent another night watching movies and eating microwave popcorn. Jack voluntarily watched Miss Congeniality with me, and the absurdity of the FBI setting an agent up in a beauty pageant. Jack admitted he felt offended at how inept the FBI looked.

  But hey, it was only a movie.

  It was ideal. I never realized how much I craved male companionship until Jack settled comfortably in my everyday life. Of course, today provided a real test of our friendship. We drove out past Martinsburg, West Virginia, to a small farming community that consisted of four or five large farms interspersed with dozens of smaller ones. The area stayed about the same for more than a century save for the addition of blacktop to old gravel and dirt roads.

  Row upon row of corn gave way to swaying wheat. Black board fencing separated the lush fields from cattle, horses and the occasional goat. Squirrels and deer frolicked in and out of the fields. The last days of July sun blazed suffocatingly hot. The first harvests were due to be brought in.

  That’s where I came in and why Jack and I traveled out this far today. The first of August marked the harvesting of the first crops of the year. Crop harvesting was business for most farmers and life’s blood to all of them. A farm could put money in the bank with the harvest or eke out subsistence existence if it failed. The farmers in this part of the world lived by the almanac the way some lived by the morning news.

  If the almanac promised an early winter, I got calls to start my harvest plans early. If it promised a long Indian summer, well, I could plan to spend some down time relaxing before digging into my work. That was just the way it worked, and how it worked for more than two hundred years.

  We pulled into Doc Martin’s place a little past six in the evening with a couple of hours of good daylight left. More than enough time for me to get ready. Doc came down from the house as soon as we parked near the outer gate.

  “You sure you don’t want to drive up to the house?” Jack asked as I stripped off the seatbelt and started to get out of the car.

  “Nope, this is good. He always plants his early crops in the outer pastured areas. That way he can keep the cattle in close for working and turn them loose to graze on what’s left to clean up after the harvest.” I grinned at Jack. He’d followed my suggestion, dressing for comfort and practicality in the work boots, jeans and a plain cotton t-shirt.

  “Hey, Doc!” I waved a greeting at the grizzled old man who strolled down the drive. Doc was the image most people have of old, spry, wiry men who’ve spent their whole lives working in the outdoors. His leathery cheeks stretched into a smile. He possessed a pair of merry blue eyes and a cheery disposition to match. My grandmother dated Doc once upon a time. Gran liked to tease me about the man who might have been her husband.

  “Hey, Chancy,” Doc grunted as he neared the gate. He stared at Jack. “Finally catch yourself a man to do all that heavy lifting for you?”

  I grinned, ignoring the question, and leaned over to give him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “How’s the Missus?”

  “She’s good. Baked you some pies to take back to Betty, and you best come up to the house when you’re done to pick them up.” He smiled at my kiss and offered his weathered hand to Jack. “Doc Martin.”

  “Jack Harker, sir.” Jack shook his hand firmly. I let the pair size each other up while I fetched the duffel from the trunk. It was heavier than usual, but I brought a lot of tools with me. Sometimes, I needed to dig in the crops when I worked a harvest. I closed the trunk and shook my head. The conversation between the two men turned to tractors. Rolling my eyes, I shouldered the bag more firmly and headed off toward the first set of fields.

  The damp Earth smelled faintly of pine, oak, honeysuckle and sunshine. It was better than sex. I swung the bag over the fence and hiked a foot up so I could swing my leg over. “Doc?” I interrupted the men.

  “Yeah, Chancy?”

  “Corn?” I pointed toward the direction I faced. “And potatoes?” I pointed at the other side of the drive.

  “Ayup, Missy. Corn’s a bit strained this year. Potatoes are doing just fine.” Doc nodded at me and fished a pipe out of his pocket. “I’m going to steal your boy for a while.”

  I laughed at the look on Jack’s face. “Go on.” I smirked and waved at him. “I’ll be fine. Besides,” I grinned as I hopped down and shouldered the duffel again, “Doc makes a mean bottle of gin.”

  I did not mention doing my job would be a lot easier without Jack looking over my shoulder. I set off toward the corn swaying in the breeze. I squinted at the late afternoon sky. Beads of sweat already formed on my forehead. A fly buzzed past, followed by a lazy buzzing bumblebee.

  I climbed over the next fence and found myself face to face with row upon row of corn. Wiping some of the dampness from my forehead with the back of my hand, I pushed aside the unpleasant memory of another field on a hot day where curses and bad blood came back to life and struck out for the center. Laid out neatly, the rows offered a peaceful place to walk—especially if you didn’t mind the stalks poking, prodding, occasionally seizing a handhold on your hair, and giving it a good yank.

  I loved this part. So much more than just a day's work. I examined the cornstalks. Several looked fat and healthy, heavy with rapidly ripening corn. But Doc was right. Other stalks didn’t look quite as ripe as they should.

  I stepped into something damp and the odor of rot wafted up to sicken me. I paused to examine what was left of a rapidly decaying cornstalk. It rotted at the base. Lifting up a bit with a

  finger, I sniffed at it cautiously and sighed.

  Grafters.

  Hopefully the infestation wouldn’t be too bad. Picking up the pace, I found my way to the center where a small circle of rocks protruded from the land. Pulling a band out of my pocket, I drew my hair back into a ponytail.

  The dirt here was rich, loamy, and shaded by the thick stalks of corn. Kneeling down, I used a hand to clean off the clutter from the small stones. The stone circle dated decades before my time, the work of a more dedicated and ingenious hedge witch.

  I unzipped the duffel. A pair of candles, one black and one white, took a place of prominence. I sprinkled some vanilla extract, a little neat’s-foot, and valerian root in small portions around the stone circle. My grandmother endorsed the ritual process—the tools and actions helped me focus my will.

  Sweat pooled on my skin under the shirt and slowly soaked its way through. The smell of salt mingled with the Earth and the crisp corn to perfume the air in a manner that was both familiar and comforting. Swiping a hand over my face again, I settled more firmly into the circle, my legs formed a bow of their own.

  I smiled as a pair of geese babbled their way across the sky overhead. Scratching the tip of my nose thoughtfully for a moment, I used a small lighter to light the candles before pocketing it.

  The meshing was seamless, like two old dancing partners finding each other in a graceful waltz. The scent of the candles created a physical marker, a mental candle in the window if you will, as I allowed the rest of my consciousness to seep into the Earth, twining around the roots and cascading along familiar tracings.

  Two years since this field saw a crop. Two years, barely an eye blink in the history of the world as the Earth recorded it. Slithering through the roots, I reached out to encompass the field filled with cornstalks. The late day sun warmed me as it warmed the Earth. If Mrs. Humphrey�
��s land sang and Mr. Adam’s land mourned, this land darkened with fear.

  It was as it should be, rich and verdant, but shadows slithered amongst the ripe life. Leaving off that which needed no succor from me now, I began to trace the path of the shadows that wound their way sinuously about the field and the roots below.

  Grafters.

  I really didn’t like grafters and I really hoped I’d been wrong about them. They caused a particularly nasty form of root rot when they infested an area. Grafters became a plague on a field if they became too entrenched. They must be a recent infestation because I saw no hints of grafters in the late winter and early spring when I came to prepare the field.

  Grafters were difficult to explain. Most saw them as a fungus spreading along the growth of natural life, feeding on the energy of the life within. When they got out of hand, they consumed whole fields. Science wouldn't be able to identify them, but I didn’t need science to identify the symptoms. And the yucky black growth was only a symptom. It didn’t lie at the root of the problem, pardon the pun.

  Visible from within the Earth, the grafters moved like slithering snakes, inky shadows wrapped around the living plant life and slowly constricted, squeezing all life out of it. Once the grafter feasted, it spread slowly onto another life form, and when two grafters met over the same subject, they mated and from their mating two or three offspring may spread out. And so it went, on and on, until they completely devastated a field.

  The thought was enough to send my internal level of anxiety higher. I had memories of far less pleasant encounters with these creatures. The Earth sensed my need and the pathways the grafters forged soon appeared to me. I gamboled along the pathways, gradually tossing out lures to entice the creatures away from their feeding and to follow the trail I set for them.

  I felt the inkiness of them as they swarmed toward me. These creatures lacked the numbers to be truly dangerous—yet. I could contain them in the rocks, thanks to the circle. The beauty and simplicity of a classic ritual. As each creature approached and wrapped around me, trying to feed, I tied it into the rocks, sending each one down deeper into the Earth, well away from the crops, down toward the bedrock where it gradually faded from being, and become part of the rock itself.

  The solution was simplistic, but extraordinarily effective.

  At least it was until I felt Jack’s fingers digging into my arm and hauling me to my feet. My eyes flew open and the icy sensation of the grafter sank into me.

  “Good God, Chance.”

  “Let go!” I ordered him. His fingers interrupted my concentration and the grafters latched onto me. Like leeches they dug in deeper, feeding. Jack slapped at the visible shadows, which wound sinuously around me.

  “Let go!” My voice filled with power and Jack stumbled backward, releasing me. The grafters struggled as I wrenched them from me, one inch at a time, and sent them chasing after their brethren. Hours passed and the moon sat fat and high in the sky when I finally emerged from the work to stare across the burning candles to Jack.

  “Don’t ever do that again.” My voice trembled with fatigue and pain. Dozens of fiery needles stabbed my arms. The Earth buffered me against the worst of the attack, and I wasn’t sure who I feared for more, Jack or myself.

  “What was that?” he asked slowly, his expression haunted.

  “Grafters. I needed to lure them in and to send them away. When you grabbed me, you interrupted my concentration and they attacked. Jack, I know you meant well, but you can’t do that. You can’t interrupt and damn us both.”

  He looked away, a muscle in his jaw working, and I knew I scared him and injured him at the same time. I ran dirt-encrusted hands over my face, mopping at the sweat, and when he proffered a handkerchief, I took it and used it to wipe my cheeks instead.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you a problem.”

  “Jack, I know that. I should have explained to you the possibilities, but it didn’t occur to me. I’m used to working out here alone. Besides,” I offered him a rueful smile, “I rather doubt you would have believed me.”

  “Maybe not. But I’ll do my best to follow your advice. Chance, I really don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Well, then maybe you should help me clean this up and get everything back to the car. I need to get those pies from Mrs. Martin.” My small smile doubled its return when he grinned back.

  “I think I can do that.” He stood and I let him do most of the work while my wobbly arms and legs determined their status. “Chance, you know it’s getting harder not to believe.”

  “I know.”

  Twelve

  Sometimes I think life is controlled by some snide little man with a warped sense of humor. For the second time in two weeks, I sat in an FBI satellite office. No one bothered to inform me of any other murders or why we needed to be here. We just finished up in the field when Jack’s cell phone rang.

  I didn't want to hear the words urgent and now, when I just wanted to go home and take a long hot bath and maybe bed down with a book. Instead, here I sat in dirt-grimed jeans with sweaty hair in a chair virtually impossible to get comfortable in. Jack badged us through all the little security checkpoints, and then, with utter politeness I might add, he dumped me in the glorified waiting room.

  I suppose I could find a bathroom of some sort, however, the idea of getting clean wasn’t winning out over the desire to be still. Maybe if I just closed my eyes and pretended the fluorescent lighting above didn’t exist, I could catch a few winks. My eyes began their downward descent and the door opened. Peeling one eye open, I focused on Agent Jamison.

  “Chance, would you like a minute to clean up before we go into the meeting?”

  No “hello.” No “thank you.” No “sorry for interrupting the day.” Humph. Is it any wonder I have an attitude problem?

  “As soon as you tell me who we are meeting.” I sounded surly. Good, I was surly.

  “I’d rather wait until we’re all settled.”

  “Billy, what’s going on?”

  “Trust me?”

  Too tired to try to decipher his evasiveness, I followed Billy down another nondescript hallway. Nondescript must be standard issue in buildings where the offices didn't welcome the public. He led me to a small bathroom and gestured to the door.

  “I suppose you plan on waiting?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll try not to take too long.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  I paused with my hand on the door handle and studied his profile. He avoided my gaze. Trepidation tugged on my insides. “Billy, has there been another murder?”

  “Chance? Trust me. Please. I know I’m asking a lot. But ten more minutes.”

  I sighed. “Not a minute longer. Then I want some answers.”

  “You’ll have them, I promise.”

  I would hold him to that. I opened the door and walked into the bathroom. Ten minutes later, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. My level of discomfort ratcheted higher and the taste of bile burned in my throat. I flashed back to the 555 from the other day. I didn't like the big changes already happening. Why do I have the feeling I am about to run into more of the same?

  Cleaned up, I followed Billy to a small conference room. The trip really set off my personal alarms. The emptiness and desolation here rankled. Unlike the previous satellite office, too few people moved around. Not even Jack standing by the door to the conference room calmed my jangling nerves that screamed at me to get out of there.

  I didn't sit, not when gut instinct warned against it. A third man stood on the far side of the room from where Billy, Jack and I entered. He barely ticked my personal radar. I scanned the shadows around him. Something or someone else aggravated me. But what or who? The third man gazed at me with an expression that was neither kind nor unkind. It was simply devoid of any emotion whatsoever. Yeah, that’s not creepy at all.

  My fingers dug into the supple leather that decorated the back of the cha
ir, and my teeth ground together despite my attempt to keep my jaw unclenched. Not a happy camper.

  “Please, Chance…may I call you Chance?” asked the man I dubbed Mr. Devoid. At odds with his expression, his voice sounded rich in consideration and politeness an old-world formality.

  “No,” I replied and nearly startled at how deep my voice dropped. I used the Voice instinctively. Using my power in that manner didn't just breach etiquette, it bespoke of a loss of control. But every cell of my body screamed in reaction. “You may not.”

  Mr. Devoid showed little to no reaction to the Voice. The same Voice pushed Billy back in his chair during our first meeting. Jack took a position on my right flank, angling his body toward mine. The protective stance kept his right arm and hand free. Grateful he chose my side right now, I didn't mind the wholly masculine behavior.

  Our audience inclined his head ever so slightly. I noticed the faint trace of receding hairline, evident in the thinning strands of black hair combed with precision to disguise the event. His eyes were dark and piercing and set in a face only a mother could love, severely etched in sharp angles and lines. He seemed neither a weasel nor a snake. He was quite simply the porcelain adaptation of a human face given flesh and form.

  “Very well, Ms. Monroe. I regret the slight bit of subterfuge that led to this meeting, and I’m sure you’ll forgive your companions for not making you aware of the nature of the meeting before you arrived.” Mr. Devoid stated this as though fact. You know what they say about assuming, right?

  Irritation marked Jack’s expression and posture, while Billy continued to avoid my gaze.

  Whether they knew who these agents were or not was moot. That they’d both participated in setting me up for an ambush added to the slow burn of anger carefully stewing in my stomach. Jack would never have done this, if he knew. Deep down, I believed that. But I put away those feelings for the time being and kept my eyes pinned on Mr. Devoid at the opposite end of the table. I needed the boost my anger gave me.