Blackmail Earth

Chapter 8





Jason and his teammates froze. They had crept down from the ridge and slipped behind a thin curtain of parched forest that encircled the clearing. They’d stood there in silence until Bert lost his balance while beating off and fell into some tinder-dry and noisy bushes. Now the boys stared through a wicket of branches at the eerily silent witches, who were staring back.

“Step out from behind those trees,” the older witch called.

Jason wanted to kick Bert’s horny ass for giving them all away. GreenSpirit started forward.

“Let’s get the f*ck out of here,” Ryan said, no more raidin’ on his mind. “They’re doing some spooky shit, man, and I don’t want any part of it.”

“That shit’s shit,” Jason said. But he might as well have been talking to the trees—the whole team was scuttling off.

Hell with that. Jason watched the witch walk toward him, moonlight on her sweet spots.

Dem de full f*ckin’ Monty, mon. Jason smiled. Old, but doable. A real MILF.

He stepped out, met her green-eyed gaze full on. His boner wanted to rip open his pants … and a whole lot more.

“What are you doing here?” she said calmly.

Jason peered at her closely. “Hey, I know you. Everybody’s looking for your ass.” He’d seen her face so much on TV that he would have known her even if she’d whipped by on her goddamn broomstick at Mach 5. He laughed. This felt great. Wait’ll I tell dem fools.

“What is it that you want?” she asked.

“Shit, I don’t want anything. Just heard there was a party. Thought we’d check it out.”

“Where are your friends?”

Jason shrugged. “They got a little freaked.”

“But not you.”

“Nah, not me.” Check dem jumbly f*cking bumblies, mon.

“I think you’re curious. That’s healthy, a good thing,” GreenSpirit said.

“Not that kind of curious,” Jason volleyed. He let his eyes wander all over the witch.

“You needn’t be ashamed of your interest in witchcraft. People are called to it from all ways of life.”

“I’m not called to this shit. I’m just checking out the party.”

“Then join us.”

She’s bluffing. He’d call her on it: “Yeah, sure.”

“But you must take off the rest of your clothes.”

No shirt, and now she wants dem pants? “No can do.” Not with his woody saluting the commander in chief.

“Don’t worry about that.” She eyed the bulge in his jeans. “Nobody cares.”

Another naked group drifted out of the forest to his left, the younger ones whom he’d watched from the ridge, including Christy. She stared at him like she was worried that he’d give her away. Her sister, Suze, stood close by. Suze knew what he had in his pants.

The old witch put her hand on his shoulder. Before she could speak, he slapped it aside. “Don’t you f*ckin’ touch me.”

“Leave,” the witch replied.

A guy with blond dreads hurried over—a hippie a*shole Jason had seen around town. Standing next to her like a goddamn bouncer. “Leave,” he said, but to Jason, he sounded like a jerk-off, and his dick looked smaller than a stinkbug.

“Yes, go,” the witch said to Jason.

“Nah, I’m staying, see how you naked witches party. Then I’m selling your ass to the highest bidder. See this?” He pulled out a business card. “CBS News. I got one from all of them. They’re all over the place looking for you. They want you to tell them all about your sex parties with your old boyfriend, Roger.” As in Roger Lilton, the presidential candidate.

He could see her face clearly now and knew that he’d spooked her. She was so desperate she was trying to fix him with a stare. What was that supposed to do? Melt him like he was some goddamn Snow Queen?

“I’m going to cast a spell on you, if you don’t leave.”

Did he hear her right? A spell? “What? Turn me into a f*cking frog? Ribbit, ribbit.” He grabbed his swollen crotch, gave it a nice tug. “I’ll cast one on you, you’re not careful. Hey,” he tugged again, “you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?”

Much as he was loath to admit it, the witch’s eyes were freaking him out. He turned away, thinking it was time to go, then spun back, refusing to admit his fear to himself or to her.

The f*cking witch threw something in his face. So light, it could have been dust; but no, it felt moist, like she’d spritzed him. Hard to say what it was, except it was cold, freezing f*cking cold, and his face turned numb. A goddamn f*cking ice cream headache. He pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, wincing. Her green eyes were looking past him. No, they were staring through him, icier still. Scared him half to death. Nobody had ever looked at him like that. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear shit.

“What? What?” he shouted.

The icy cold drained from his head. He was so grateful, he whimpered. But it kept draining—down through his chest, belly, and in the next instant he knew with horror where it would stop. You f*cking bitch. You goddamn f*cking, green-eyed—

The frigid flow froze every imprecation, settling like a blizzard on his cock and balls. Draining all desire.

His boner was gone. Forever. That’s all he kept thinking: Forever.

He ran off, moonlight still on his bare back.

* * *

Forensia stared at Jason’s panicky departure, and vowed to herself to work even harder on spells. She had never seen one executed so effectively. Everything she’d ever heard about GreenSpirit was true. She had amazing power. Jason and his friends had violated the Pagans, a sacred ceremony, and GreenSpirit—and he had paid a high price.

Forensia was so mesmerized by what she had witnessed that she didn’t notice GreenSpirit walking back to the circle of power. The witch startled her by touching Forensia’s shoulder, then told her and Sang-mi to remain on their knees in the circle while everyone chanted.

Forensia turned her thoughts away from what had just happened and lost herself in the lulling rhythm of the Wiccan chants. Soon she felt herself lifted high above the forest, flying over the scorched, prickly canopy. The surge of sensation proved so intense, so intoxicating, that her feeling of flight—of swift, ethereal remove—superseded her other senses: The whole of her being was imbued with the spirit’s own sway.

Now GreenSpirit blindfolded both Sang-mi and Forensia, and in the darkness behind the cloth Forensia heard a creak as the boline was drawn from the rough pine plank of the altar. The priestess pressed the flat of the blade down on Forensia’s head, then against first one cheek and then the other, angling it just enough to give the younger woman a keen sense of the weapon’s edge. But fear had lost the battle with trust high above the clearing, when Forensia had looked down from the depthless night sky and seen her vast unfurling future, a world bereft of blood and death.

When the tip of the knife touched her lips, she opened them wide as a mother giving birth. And like legions of women before her, Forensia’s belly tightened and twitched in a harsh labor of longing. She accepted the symbolism of the harrowing blade, and tried mightily not to flinch or shake.

The boline withdrew slowly, touching her tongue with intention, leaving a metallic trail along her taste buds. Next the buds of her breasts felt the blade’s insistent tip and, strangely, stirred in tender defiance.

Had she been cut? She couldn’t tell, and the weapon traveled like a sharp shadow to the base of her spine before rising over every vertebrae—a peculiar if ancient blessing—before returning to her tongue, as if to sever Forensia from the chains of her own flesh. But she tasted no blood, and this surprised her.

Minutes passed. Forensia assumed GreenSpirit was blessing Sang-mi. At last, the young woman heard footfalls as the other witches gathered around them inside the circle of power. A knotted leather whip suddenly burned her back. She smelled risen dust, thought of Calvary and steel—old religion and new—and filled with the unwavering power of pain as the whip changed hands. But she did not bleed.

A new chant, dark and unfamiliar, raised the hair on her arms and neck: The animal in her heart unleashed torrents of terror in her retreating mind. Fear blackened her belly and she abruptly felt the claustrophobia of blindness, dense and graven as the black borders of the eternally shaken universe.

GreenSpirit drew close to Forensia and Sang-mi. “If it harms none?” she asked in an urgent voice.

“Do what ye will,” the two young women said.

“And will you guard the Craft, the Secrets of the Craft, and all your brothers and sisters, no matter their age, no matter their state of grace?”

“I will,” Forensia yelled, hearing Sang-mi’s softer voice echo her response: a marriage vow to all of Gaia’s creations.

GreenSpirit bade them stand. The blindfolds came off and the two new witches embraced their sisters of faith, who held them gently, avoiding the new welts on their backs.

Richtor and the other Pagans raced from the trees like moonlit sprites. All of them—initiated and uninitiated alike—joined hands. Forensia took Richtor’s with a smile as full and rich as any she’d ever offered him or anyone, then reached for Suze Walker, the sheriff’s oldest daughter. Sang-mi stood across from her, linking GreenSpirit and one of the older witches who’d driven down from Ithaca.

They danced, counterclockwise, never losing contact with one another. The candle flames flickered wildly in the draft of their movement. It threw shadows everywhere, licking color across the boline, back in place on the altar.

Forensia felt intensely aroused by Richtor’s touch. She wanted to remember him always like this, with his hair flying, and his hand warm and soft and tightly grasped in hers. She squeezed her eyes shut in delight, then snapped them open as she heard someone crashing through the woods. A new light revealed a reporter and cameraman marching toward them with Jason close behind.

“Paul Kellison, CBS News. I’m looking for GreenSpirit. I have just a few questions for you, GreenSpirit,” he added, as if he’d already spied her, but that wasn’t possible because they’d closed their circle around the altar, concealing their leader, and their faces, from view. After a moment, as naturally as the circle had closed, it opened, unabashed as a flower.

GreenSpirit had vanished. It was as if they’d rehearsed, but what Forensia found inspiring and dauntingly mysterious was that they’d reacted instinctively, almost primordially, to protect her. Guard the Craft, the Secrets of the Craft, and all your brothers and sisters.

Then she realized that every second of her life had been preparation for these moments.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Suze whispering “Oh, shit” over and over, as if profanity were the only mantra that mattered. Forensia realized why—it was inevitable now that Suze’s father would know that she and Christy had been here, naked and with other Pagans. Even if the news report blurred Suze’s features, Jason Robb would tell everyone.

Kellison said, sharply, “Where’s GreenSpirit?”

“What are you talking about?” Forensia quickly stepped in front of Suze, blocking the camera’s view of her friend. “If you mean that woman on the news, she’s not here.”

The other Pagans agreed.

“You said she was here.” Kellison turned to Jason.

“She was. I saw her. I talked to her. But that was,” he glanced at his watch, “an hour ago.”

“He’s a liar,” Forensia said. “A total bullshitter.”

“Everyone knows that,” Richtor said, “except you, I guess.”

“He probably made you pay him to bring you down here,” Sang-mi chimed in. “We’re here once a month, and he’s done this kind of thing before.”

“Most of the time he just takes money from perverts,” Forensia said. “We just wish he’d grow up.”

Kellison and his cameraman hurried along the perimeter of the clearing, shining the strong camera light into the woods. Then they stormed off, taking their gear and their anger but not their discredited guide: Jason stared at Forensia.

“You f*cking lying bitch. You f*cked me royally.”

“Just leave and don’t come back,” Forensia said.

“You’re not gettin’ away with this, you f*cking bitch.”

“You’re an a*shole just like…”

She stopped herself, but not soon enough to quash the memory of Jason’s dead brother—or to hold on to the magic and mysticism she’d felt during her initiation.

Jason lunged for her neck, nearly seizing her. Richtor pushed him down and the other Pagans crowded the young man on three sides.

“Go,” Richtor shouted. “Get out of here.”

Jason scrambled to his feet, brushed himself off, and glared at them. After a moment, his gaze focused on Forensia. She felt the heat of his anger as if he were clawing at her skin; she had to force herself to stand boldly before him. Under his stare, her ankh, long revered as a symbol of life, felt like a target, teeming with the imminent dreadfulness of violent death.