After what seemed an eternity, Jack found his way onto Witch Hill Road, and then tottered into a small, dark clearing that overlooked a shabby park. No one visited Gallows Hill. All that remained of this mound of misery was a little patch of grass off a bland suburban road—clumps of weeds feeding off the remains of accused witches.
He dropped his heavy bag, collapsing next to it on the grass. Fiona must understand that the Salem Witch Trials weren’t his fault. He’d cast the spell on the little girls to protect himself from the Purgators, but it had made the girls insane. And the Purgators had seized their opportunity to exploit them. Jack had needed to play along with the whole charade to spare himself. How else could he complete his Great Work?
He rubbed his eyes, leaning back into the bag and staring up at the stars. The malicious little girls had even gone after Dorcas Good—or Dorothy, he could never remember her name. Only four, she’d been chained up in a rat-infested and windowless jail. She’d been compelled to testify against her own mother, whose bare, dirt-crusted feet had dangled over this very spot. Little Dorcas had made up a story about a talking snake—the familiar her mother had given her, she said. But she hadn’t been a philosopher any more than Jack was an angel.
Little Dorcas had been freed from the prison, but she’d never recovered, not mentally. Her testimony had sent her own mother to the gallows, and Dorcas’s fragile mind couldn’t handle the guilt. He’d catch her wandering around Salem years later, with wild clumps of hair that gave her the appearance of a wild woman. She still blathered about her talking snake. The talking snake was what she’d confessed as a girl, what had sent her mother to her death, and she’d never forgotten it.
He stared into the little pinpricks of light in the night sky. What am I doing here? I’m supposed to be doing a spell of some sort… He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. This was more than just hunger. His fingers dug into the hard earth, pulling out a clod of dirt and grass. Someone had cursed his body and his mind. His lungs rasped.
Was it Dorcas’s mother? She must have cursed me. She’d been pregnant when convicted, and her little baby girl died in jail. Before the wretch was hanged, she’d raved to the judges that God would give them blood to drink. He could taste the blood in his mouth now. So sweet, like a fine Merlot. He rested his head on the ground, just below where the cursed woman’s naked feet had twitched. She had her revenge. She’d given him his blood to drink.
Through bleary eyes, he saw something white approaching in the dark. An angel? His lips were as dry as a desert wind.
“Jack. What’s happening to you?” It was Papillon. She fluttered before his eyes, her papery wings catching in the glow of a street light. “You look drained.”
“Cursed…” he croaked.
“Your skin is pale and dry. Like you’ve been…”
Maybe it isn’t a curse. He tried to moisten his mouth enough to swallow. “…hagged,” he finished her thought.
“Who would send a hag for you?”
Any number of people.
Papillon flew toward the bag. “You must call on Druloch for strength.”
Of course. He pushed himself up on his forearms, groaning as he sat up. He pulled his athame out of his bag with a shaking hand. He’d have to draw the symbol from this position. There was no way he could manage standing. His arms throbbing with fatigue, he listlessly traced an arc around himself, and then dragged it through the dirt to form a tree shape in the center. “Druloch,” he rasped. “Give me strength.”
When he finished tracing the symbol, tree roots sprouted from the soft earth around him. The air filled with the scent of elm leaves and decay. As it did, an electrifying power surged through his body. At the familiar feeling, a euphoric smile creased his face. But as he rose, his muscles still ached, and hunger still gnawed at his stomach. The usual ritual wasn’t enough.
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped a jittery hand across. The damned succubus must have been draining me for weeks.
Papillon circled his head. “Better?”
“A bit. But I still need to see the Earl.”
Picking up his bag, he trudged across the clearing toward a stand of saplings, inhaling deeply. He should have just enough strength to make it to Virginia. He gripped a small sapling, and, using his newfound strength, cut its trunk with his athame. Laying it on the earth, he pulled out the jars of wolfsbane and cinquefoil. After unscrewing the tops, he rubbed the salve onto the sapling and then returned the jars to his bag.
He gripped the tree between his legs and soared into the air. High above Salem, the breeze whipped against his skin, cooling his fever. He would fly over the ocean, inhaling the salty coastal air. He was heading back to the nation’s origins. Let people think of Plymouth as the birth of our country. No one wants to think of Jamestown’s ravening, blaspheming skeletons, feasting on human flesh. Even the Earl hadn’t come to terms with it after four hundred years.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tobias