She did so, sobbing loudly now, her hands held over her face so she could not see him, as if, by shielding her face she could shield the rest of her body.
He set the candle on her stomach, carefully placed a rag between her legs. Closing his eyes, he concentrated for a moment, gathering the strength he needed. As always, it started with a tingle deep in his midsection, a fluttering of
the heart that grew into a warm vibration and spread outward through his body, through his limbs, into his head, lighting up the world inside his brain.
He opened his eyes, and the room was tinged with extra color.
Everything had a halo about it, auras of different tint that emanated from the walls, from the floor, from the ceiling, from the furniture, and especially, from the girl.
Her head was bathed in yellow, most of her body in blue, but both the candle on her stomach and her abdomen had auras of gray.
William took a deep breath, then slowly passed his hands over her abdomen, muttering the Words that would terminate her pregnancy. From the hairy cleft between her legs came a small trickle of blood that was immediately soaked up by the rag. Jane was still crying, but from shame and humiliation. It was obvious that she felt no pain.
Once more his hands passed over her, and this time a gloppy mess spilled out from between her legs onto the rag, a bloody mass of undistinguishable flesh that he quickly covered and took away. He tossed the entire rag in the fire, said a few Words, then turned back toward the girl. 'It is over,' he told her. 'You may dress.'
She took her hands from her face, and the expression he saw, in the second before he turned away to give the girl her privacy, was one of surprise. She had not known it was over because she had not even known it had started.
He heard from behind him the creak of bed and floorboard, the rustle of clothes. It was not over yet, however. His premonition of lurking disaster had not abated one whit, and though the auras were fading before his eyes, though the tingle in his body had subsided into almost nothing, he still had the sense that something was wrong, that what had transpired here tonight would lead to... to... To what? Death.
Yes, death. Whether his own or Jane's he did not know, but he tried to hurry her up, tried to get the girl out the door and back on the path to town before anything occurred. She tried to pay him, offered to work off her debt to him for his kindness and help, but he told her he would accept no payment. He did this because he wanted to help her, not because he wanted anything for himself. She did not right him but allowed herself to be hurried out.
He watched her through the window as she sprinted back toward town, moonlight illuminating her form until she hit a small dip in the trail and faded into the shadows.
William poured himself some tea from the kettle above the fire and sat in the chair, waiting, but his sense of foreboding did not go away. He was debating whether to saddle up and ride off for a few days, maybe spend a week or so in the hills until whatever this was had passed, when he heard noises from outside.
Someone knocked on the door.
This is it. '
He nearly spilled the tea on his lap, getting up, but he managed to avoid burning himself and placed the cup on the mantel above the fireplace.
The knock came again, louder, stronger, not the friendly sound of a neighbor's tapping hand but the hard, demanding rap of wood on wood.
William walked across the room, pulled back the bolt, and opened the door.
Six or seven men stood on the porch, ax handles and shotguns in hand.
Even backlit by the moon, their forms in silhouette, their faces bathed in darkness, William could see defensiveness in their postures, anger in the way they held their weapons. Beneath everything, he could sense their fear. He had been through all of this before.
'Come in,' he said, feigning a camaraderie he did not feel. 'We didn't come for no visit,' the closest man said.
William recognized the low rough voice of Calhoun Stevens, Jane's father. The big man stepped over the threshold. 'We know what you did.'
'And we know what you is!' came the jittery voice of an old man at the back.
'I have no idea what you're talking about,' William lied.
Stevens raised his ax handle threateningly. 'I know my daughter was here tonight. I know what you did to her!'
Jane could not have told, William realized. These men could not have been gathered and ridden out here in that short time. It had to have been her friend, the one who'd given her his name.
The men pushed forward. Stevens slammed his ax handle against the cabin wall. 'We're here to make sure you can never do anything like that again.'
'We know what you is!' the man in back repeated. There was going to be no easy way out of this, William understood. These men had not come to talk, and they were not prepared to listen. They were obviously afraid of him, and they'd obviously had to build themselves up to this.
As they pressed farther into the room, he could smell whiskey breath, ' He could use their fear against them. It was his last chance to avoid violence.
He stood straight and moved next to the fire, aware of the image the flickering orange flames would produce. 'You know what I am?' he said. 'Then, you know what I can do.'
He concentrated, caused the flames to leap and grow in a roaring whoosh that sped up the chimney.
The men, all of the men except Stevens, stumbled backward.
'She's my daughter! Stevens said, advancing. '
William stood still, gathering his strength, hoping he wouldn't have to use the magic, knowing he would. 'I have
not touched your daughter.' He glanced quickly around the room, taking inventory, deciding what he would need to take with him, what he could afford to leave. He would miss this place.
Stevens swung at him.
William ducked, expecting it. The ax handle knocked down the mantel above the fireplace, the objects atop it clattering and breaking on the wooden floor. Before the big man could attack again, William waved his hand and caused the ax handle to fly from Stevens' hand.
'Stop right now,' he warned. 'Leave my house or I will not be responsible.' From the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of the men nearest the door edge their way back outside. No one was rushing forward to help Stevens.
His muscles were shaking. Anger and power coursed through him. When he saw that Stevens had no intention of leaving or backing off, when he saw that the father's rage and pride were running too high, William steeled himself. Stevens rushed him. 'Die, witch!'
He'd clearly expected his friends to help, but as William began chanting some of the Words, as the fireplace roared again and a green flame leapt out and struck Stevens full in the face, the other men fled, scrambling to get out the door.
William continued chanting and the green flame grew, spreading down the big man's body, engulfing him, freezing him in place. Beneath the sickly illumination of the unnatural fire, Stevens' body blackened, crumpled, started to melt.
William looked out the open door at the men and horses running away, their forms little more than scrambling shadows in the moonlight.
They'd scurry back to town, and soon they'd be back, with more men, more weapons. The righteous townspeople marching forth to put an end to the evil witch and his black arts
All because a girl had fallen in love with someone other than the boy her father wanted her to marry. And he
