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  Drawing a deep breath, Elsbeth chanted to the Coven of the Sisterhood:

  “Come to me,

  I summon all.

  Come to me,

  Heed thy sister’s call.”

  Elsbeth had no idea if the sisterhood would answer her summons, but she knew they’d hear her pleas. This night, the time of Bron Trogain, the Coven of the Thirteen’s power reached its zenith.

  “Please. Help me!” She prayed her words brought them to her. Elsbeth clenched her fists, and repeated the summons–the wind rose in strength, screeching through the trees, past the forest, carrying her pleas to the coven.

  “Stop it,” John shouted. “You’re mad!”

  Elsbeth continued her soft chanting. She refused to look at him or acknowledge he accused her of madness when he was clearly insane with the evil magick drowning his mind. She couldn’t risk her children, not when John had so betrayed her. She pleaded for guidance, begged for help, not for herself, but for her daughters.

  The wind died so abruptly, she knew she’d lost.

  I’ve failed! Failed as a wife, failed to protect those I love.

  The coven wasn’t coming.

  Maybe she hadn’t expected them to save her, not after she’d wed a mortal and abandoned the coven, but somehow, she’d thought her sisterhood would be willing to save her children, even if they were considered Impures because of their half human blood.

  Elsbeth lifted her head and watched as John withdrew a paper from his vest pocket and shook it at her. Gloating, he seemed pleased he had the warrant for her.

  “Being wed to you ruined my life,” he said. Accusation twisted his once handsome face. “You have no ability to produce sons.”

  “How would you know?” she snapped. “You haven’t slept with me in weeks. You refused to give me a child this season. For a witch, that is the cruelest thing you could possibly do.”

  His lips drew together, tight with contempt. “I want no more children with you,” he said, his voice harsh. He pressed the paper at her. “The warrant’s for all of you. Awaken thy daughters, witch, so they might hang beside you.” His face distorted with victory. He was so certain of his success. “Know this, yes, I bedded another.” He smiled, please. “She carries my son in her belly,” he announced proudly.

  Elsbeth swallowed hard. A child? A son? Her soul cried out at the injustice of it. Her heart splintered and bled. He’d gladly hand her over to the magistrates just to gain his freedom. That treachery alone was enough to shatter her wounded spirit, but for him to create a child with another when he’d refused to give her a baby was degrading, to be willing to watch his daughters hang was unforgivable.

  She lifted her chin, furious that he dared gloat his sinful deeds to her. He’d forced her to commit adultery, one more thing she’d never forgive him for.

  “Turn me over to the magistrates, John, if that is thy wish,” she said humbly, although subservient was far from what she felt. “I will not allow you or the magistrates to harm our daughters.”

  “Obey me, Elsbeth, or pay the price.”

  Once more she heard the utter callousness in his words. Her heart splintered, leaving behind a bleak, lifeless nothing beating behind her breasts.

  Where had her gentle husband gone to?

  When had she lost him?

  Had she lost him when he took another witch? Or had she lost him when she lay in the demon’s arms? Could they save what they once had, rebuild from there?

  “Search thy heart, John,” she pleaded, willing to give him one last chance for their daughter’s sake. “I know you do not truly feel this contempt for me. You’ve always been a righteous man. You are compelled. Hexed. Fight it, John! We can go away. Start over. Remember how happy we were in the past? ”

  For a moment, his eyes, those dark, unfathomable eyes, sought hers. In that brief connection, she saw a second of lucidity. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth. Pain twisted his face. Tears spilled down his cheeks in a pale river.

  “Beth,” he choked. “Forgive me.” Then he cast off his remorse as easily as he’d cast her aside, and once more, the oily spell he was under blackened his mind. He mopped his tears on the back of his shirt sleeve, his eyes glittering with renewed venom when he looked up. “I renounce you,” he shouted. “Thy witch marks shall determine thy guilt.”

  Elsbeth closed her eyes. Fool! He could not see the invisible witch marks any more than she could die from a rope. True, severe injuries ripped the soul from a witch’s body and it could take centuries before it found its way back. But fire was the true enemy. Fire could force her spirit into an eternal black void, but John didn’t know that. No one did, except another witch.

  He dropped his gaze to her breasts. “Once, long ago, you tempted me with thy lush body.”

  “Do not tempt me into turning you into a croaking toad. Harm me or our daughters and I’ll do exactly that. Now get out of my way,” she said, her body stiff with determination.

  John threw up his hands and retreated. “Take thy daughters. Do what you will, for they are as evil as you. I never want to see them again. Get thee hence!”

  Elsbeth flinched at his cruel words.

  “I watched you in the woods with them,” he ranted. “Magic flew from their fingertips, while you danced in circles, chanting. You summoned the Devil. The silver-haired one–”

  “Saylym,” Elsbeth interrupted. “Thy daughter’s name is Saylym. She is but two, John. How can you fear her? We were not summoning Satan but asking for blessings upon our home. Thy children love you. You’re their father.”

  “Nay,” he denied. “Demon seeds! They are rooted from Satan’s own seed, not mine.”

  The light of fanaticism raged in his eyes. He looked feverish, his face flushed with madness. Sweat trickled down his cheeks and throat and dampened the neck of his white shirt despite the coolness of the evening.

  The leaves outside rustled against the bottom of the door. The wind grew stronger, howling around the cottage. The coven! Elsbeth’s pulses raced with excitement.

  “Mama?” The frightened voice came from their eldest, six year old, Nyra.

  Elsbeth whipped around. Spying her daughter peeping over the loft rails at her, she screamed, “Go, Nyra. Wake Saylym and Kirrah. Gather thy sisters. Quickly! The coven draws near.”

  “Nay,” John cried, his dark eyes round with fright. “It can’t be. I won’t allow them to interfere.”

  Elsbeth turned her attention to her husband, her steps faltering at the sight of the heavy flintlock pistol shaking in his hands. Revulsion filled his eyes as he aimed it at her. He cocked the gun. She drew a sharp breath at the sound of the lock mechanism snapping into place.

  “John,” she said faintly. “The children. Please. Do not do this terrible thing, I beg you.”

  His fingers tightened on the trigger.

  Not a whisper of remorse glimmered in his eyes.

  Elsbeth threw up her arms in defense.

  The blast of the gunshot exploded through the cottage…

  Chapter One

  Physicians were mystified and unable to determine any physical cause for the symptoms and dreadful behavior of the girls. They concluded that the girls were under the influence of Satan.

  ~Salem Witch Trials

  Mid-February, 1692

  Page Entry…

  Ru-Noc–Land of witches and wakens.

  There was a time when witches and wakens dwelled in the illumrof realm, the world of non-magical, ordinary mortals. Times were joyous, one of festivals, prosperity and plenty.

  In the year of Samhain, 1692, the Great Feast came as it always had, but the Pagan rituals were not celebrated. The fields lay fallow. There were no cuttings of sweet corn to bury as an offering to the earth.

  Bron Trogain came, bringing with it the change in the length of day but there was no Last Feast of the season. A great pall lay upon the land–‘twas a year of unforgivable sorrow. Terror filled the hearts of those accused of witchcraft, both mortal and immortal. Th
ey were black days for the witches of Salem Village.

  Death arrived–

  And his visit would be a long one.

  ~Pages of history from the Winslow Witches.

  In the Year of Samhain, 1692

  Sanctuary

  Time of Beltane

  315 years later

  The hairbrush in Saylym Winslow’s hand moved suddenly, wiggling worse than a worm on a hook. Screaming, she flung it across the bathroom and pressed a hand against her run-away heart.

  Unfortunately, the brush landed in the commode with a distinctive plop. Water slapped over the sides of the porcelain rim, splattering onto the worn tiled floor. Saylym bit her lip and tip-toed to the toilet bowl. Drawing a deep breath to steady her nerves, she peered over the edge, then jumped back. Her breathing rattled to a dead stop in her chest.

  “Oh-my-god,” she cried. “I don’t believe it!”

  The brush inched its way up the side of the white porcelain as if it had suddenly sprouted hands and feet. It reached the rim, tottered for a second, then toppled onto the floor and flopped like a fish out of water.

  “No more,” she moaned. “Please. I can’t stand one more inanimate thing coming to life.” Fleeing from the bathroom to the safety of her bedroom, Saylym paused to draw a deep breath. Her oxygen depleted lungs expanded and fresh air rushed in, making her slightly dizzy. She grabbed the doorknob, steadied her breathing, then slammed the bathroom door behind her.

  Bloody hell! She was losing her freakin’ mind.

  Although she had to admit there’d certainly been a number of odd things happen since she’d slipped that darn ring on her finger a month ago, but a hairbrush springing to life and crawling out of a toilet rated pretty high on her list of weird events.

  “A brush does not walk, talk or breathe. Books don’t float in the air and brooms don’t fly. Hah!”

  Her world went off-kilter the moment she arrived in Sanctuary. Saylym frowned. No, that wasn’t exactly right. It started when she bought the old map from an antiques store in London.

  As soon as she got home, she unfolded it, closed her eyes and pointed to a place, any place on the map to call her new home. When she opened her eyes and looked, her fingertip rested on a black speck squeezed in beside Salem Village on the old map of the Early Colonies of the Americas and the East coast shoreline. Sanctuary. Her destiny.

  Without a moment’s thought or taking the time to plan ahead, she packed a suitcase and caught the first available flight from London, and the rest was history.

  Except, in her case, it wasn’t.

  The city of Salem had been nothing but a blur as the reckless cabbie raced through the late afternoon rush hour traffic. The elderly driver swished in and out of lanes like Gumby on crack, tooting the horn, yelling obscenities and making gestures his arthritic fingers shouldn’t have been able to perform. When he finally pulled to the curb in front of a run-down building, she felt like kissing the ground. She hopped out immediately, but then her heart plummeted as she looked around. This couldn’t be the right place. What was the cabbie thinking?

  “That’ll be fifty dollars plus tip.” The old man stood there holding out his hand, waiting for his money.

  “But this is an antiques shop. I wanna go to the town of Sanctuary, not a shop named Sanctuary,” she said, reading the faded letters on the display window of the building where he’d parked.

  “Sanctuary isn’t a town anywhere near Salem, missy. If you really wanna go there, then you’ll have to discover the magical path inside the shop,” he said, pointing and cackling.

  She should have realized the cab driver with the grizzled white whiskers and brilliant blue eyes was a tad bit ‘out there.’ While the car idled, she grabbed the single piece of luggage she’d brought with her. Muttering beneath her breath about idiot drivers and inflated taxi rates, she handed him the fare.

  Instead of giving her back change for the hundred dollar bill she handed him, he placed a ring in her hand and slipped the money in his pocket. “When you enter the shop, put on the ring, and rub it three times.”

  “Why? Will a genie pop out?” Crazy old coot! She felt like screaming, give me back my money, but losing at least forty dollars was worth it just to get away from this nut.

  His eyes twinkled mysteriously as he got behind the wheel of the taxi. “Rub the ring,” he said, and punched down on the gas, shooting away in a cloud of smoky exhaust fumes.

  Nibbling on her bottom lip, Saylym stared after the driver, then turned to the antiques shop. Frustration quivered through her setting her teeth on edge. How could there be a town on the map and there be no town?

  What should she do now that the driver had raced away and deserted her? “Rub the ring,” she mimicked.

  Why hadn’t she had the forethought to make hotel reservations? She simply hadn’t taken the time to plan ahead. Now look at the mess she was in. With nowhere else to go, she might as well go inside the store. Just to prove the old man was nuts, she slipped the square-cut emerald onto her finger and pushed open the door of the shop.

  She should never have rubbed the ring.

  As soon as she did, swirling circles of radiant light closed around her, and swear to God, gravity lost its grip. She floated into the air. Her luggage crashed to the floor somewhere below her feet.

  The shop spun round and round, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Saylym clenched her eyes shut, gasped, and tried desperately to draw a breath. Pressure built around her as if she was spinning inside a centrifuge. Spinning. Spinning. Faster. Faster. Until she was hurled out of the shop, out of reality as she knew it.

  When she opened her eyes, instead of crash landing as she expected, she found herself pushing through a spectrum of glittering rainbow colors soft as cotton candy. The dazzling hues stole her breath away. She stared at them in wide-eyed wonder. Saylym felt as if she’d stepped out of one world and through a prism into another. The brilliant shades slowly faded, leaving her slightly intoxicated and unsteady on her feet.

  Feeling a little off course and a lot like she’d lost her grip on reality, she looked around. Behind her, an ancient looking forest thick with giant-sized pine trees, majestic as snow-capped mountains, spiraled toward the peculiar looking sky. How odd. The colors the clouds possessed were not only stunning, but were lime-green, lemon-yellow and sunset-orange.

  Abundant with over-sized mushrooms on the leafy covered ground, small animals raced to and fro to their burrows in the magical forest. Birds of all colors and sizes darted through strange colored sky, chirping and diving for treats on the ground.

  The forest stretched endlessly to her left and to her right, nearly surrounding a tiny, quaint village spread before her. The quiet town reminded her of pictures she’d seen of Colonial settlements. How could that be? Had she somehow been flung back in time? If so, where was she?

  It’d soon be dark. She had to find shelter for the night. No way did she want to be caught out in these strange woods after dark. She glanced down at her jeans, noted a new rip on the knee. How had that happened? Feeling at a loss and struggling to fight the panic closing in on her, she looked around for her one piece of luggage. It was nowhere to be seen.

  Then as if something or someone had read her mind, her suitcase appeared beside her. Saylym stared at the offending piece of luggage. She didn’t know which was worse, having it appear from nowhere, or not appear, when she for certain needed its contents. Giving it a dark scowl, she decided she was grateful. At least she’d have clean clothes.

  Before she could gather her wits, a clap of thunder and a strange sounding cackle filled the peculiar sky above the trees. From out of nowhere, an ancient looking white-haired woman appeared before her.

  “What a rush,” she hooted, rocking unsteadily on her heels. The old woman straightened the red pointed hat on her head from where it had tilted to one side and cackled, revealing shiny, pink gums. She shook out the blue skirt dusting the ground and straightened her bright yellow bodice. Sturdy, black
shoes covered her feet. If she wasn’t dressed in such loud colors, Saylym would swear the old woman was the wicked witch of the West, except her face wasn’t green.

  “Welcome to Sanctuary, Saylym Winslow,” she said, clapping her hands. “The witches of our little village town have waited a long time for your arrival.”

  Saylym moaned and toppled to the ground at the old lady’s feet in a dead faint.

  When she came to, the aged crone had somehow managed to get her inside a cottage and on a bed. The witchy looking hag declared the small house now belonged to Saylym.

  “And guess what?” she said.

  Saylym shook her head, afraid to ask.

  “You’re so lucky to have me for a next door neighbor. I’ll look after you, my dear. You can trust me.”

  She wasn’t so sure about her luck, but here she was, living in Sanctuary, next door to Eldora Waters, and what a character the old lady was. The very next day, Eldora slapped a deed to the house into her hands. It was a gift. And no, she couldn’t tell her who gave it to her. The benefactor wished to remain anonymous. Presto. One problem solved. She had a place to live and no house payment to worry about.

  Life was good. Life was great. Or was it?

  Saylym stared at her reflection in the mirror and sighed. It had done her little good to question the crone. Nothing the old lady said made a lick of sense. Worse, when she asked people in the village where the city of Salem was located or how to get there, horror masked their faces and they shied away from her. No help there.

  Her life had flipped upside down when she rubbed that ring, and so had her world.