“How could you have known?” she half asked, half stated. “I told you I was fine. You aren’t a mind reader.”
“I’m a Witch. I should have sensed that something was wrong.”
“You’ve been preoccupied lately,” she admonished. “You can’t expect to be able to do everything.”
“I can at least expect to be sensitive to you and your feelings,” I expressed, glancing over at her.
“Don’t beat yourself up over this, Rowan.” She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Take it from someone who’s been doing just that. It won’t accomplish anything.”
I paused for a moment, pondering the wisdom of what she had just said. “I just wanted you to know I love you,” I whispered.
“I never doubted it.”
CHAPTER 17
Darkness.
Cold, lifeless, complete darkness.
Falling.
Screaming.
Silence.
Light.
I’m standing somewhere. I’m standing nowhere.
There is something in my hand. I look down and notice that I am holding a cane. My hand is encased in a white glove. I am dressed in white.
Formal.
A white tuxedo with tails.
“ Hello, Mister,” a small voice calls from the void.
I turn to find a small child. A young girl with silky, strawberry-blonde hair tied up with perfect, white satin bows. She is dressed in a lacy, white, party dress and Mary Janes. She’s looking up at me with large, curious eyes. She holds out her tiny, gloved hand to me and then waits.
I take her hand.
A scream.
Silence.
The young girl is tugging on my coattail.
“ Give him the tickets, Mister,” she tells me.
“ What?” I ask. “Who? What tickets?”
“ Tickets, please.” There is a faceless man standing before me.
In my hand, I hold two smooth rectangles. I turn them over in my hand. I don’t know where they came from or why I have them. I can only assume that they are the tickets the man wants.
At first glance, they appear blank.
At second glance, they appear patterned.
At third glance, they appear familiar.
I look at them closer.
The Seven of Pentacles.
“ Mister, give him the tickets, or we’ll miss the show.”
The young girl continues to tug on my coattail in frustration.
“ Hurry.”
I give the faceless man the tickets. I don’t know why.
We are sitting.
We are in a theatre.
Seats seem to extend forever into the shadows. They are all empty. The young girl and I are the only audience.
There is a program in my hands. It is printed on a single sheet of fancy paper and folded in the center. The symbol adorning the front of the page is the Seven of Pentacles. I begin to peel open the crisp parchment.
“ They’re starting.” The girl nudges me and points to the stage before us.
I look up. The tall vermilion curtain is swinging open slowly. A grey mist is beginning to spill from the slit forming in the center.
The curtains are open wide, suddenly, as if they had never been closed.
A faceless woman with strawberry-blonde hair, dressed in elegant white lace is standing center stage. She is flanked on her left by a faceless brunette and on her right by a faceless blonde. They are all dressed alike.
The grey mist spills over the edge of the stage and is filling the theatre. It hangs wetly around my ankles, creeping incessantly up my legs.
A scream.
A splash of red spreads across the breast of the woman at center stage, and her body heaves violently as a gurgling voice calls out, “Why, Rowan, Why?”
I try to get up. I can’t. The cold grey mist has crept up over my knees and into my lap. It is holding me in the seat. I can’t move.
I look over at the young girl. She is staring intently at the stage.
A scream.
I look back to the stage. I don’t want to, but I can’t help myself. A crimson stain bursts forth on the chest of the faceless brunette woman. She begins crumpling to the floor, shrouded in the mist. A new voice gurgles, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”
The mist has made its way farther up my body now. It floats about me mid-chest. I look over to the young girl. I expect her to be completely covered in the paralyzing fog.
She isn’t.
She looks back at me curiously as the fog licks at her but never touches. I open my mouth, but I can’t make a sound. She turns back to the stage.
A scream.
Blood, thick and red, flows from the chest of the blonde, quickly forming a Pentagram, then blending into a formless blotch. She begins to slip downward into the fog, her gurgling voice reaches my ears, “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”
The woman center stage is still standing. She continues to shake violently, her head rolls forward, and a face forms where there had only been void. Her eyes open, and she looks directly at me. She begins to slide away into the grey mist, and her mouth begins to move, “Why don’t you stop him, Rowan?”
Her body disappears. Standing in place behind her is a hooded, robed figure, a bloody dirk held firmly in his grip. He looks at me, then to the young girl, then back to me again. He appears faceless, but even at this distance, I can see his eyes.
Cold.
Cold, grey eyes.
The thick fog erupts before him. A plume rises quickly, then dissipates, falling back to the floor almost as quickly as it had risen, leaving behind the lace clad form of yet another young woman. She screams.
The scream echoes forever throughout the shadows. The robed figure raises the dirk, then plunges it downward.
Blood.
Dark crimson, thick with the young woman’s life. The life that flows out of her in time with her waning scream. The hooded figure thrusts his hand into her chest, then wrenches it back as her dying body crumples to the floor.
The mist is just below my chin. I’m completely unable to move now, and I’m finding it hard to breathe. I look over at the young girl next to me.
