witches of cleopatra hill 06 - spellbound Page 11

  Half the town seemed to be heading toward the simple rectangular building with the tall steeple on top. Danica trailed along dutifully as Mrs. Marshall pointed out the people she thought she should know — “Mr. Brannen, who has the general store down on San Francisco Street, and Mr. Reilly, who owns the livery stable, and Mr. Ives, the banker” — but as far as she could tell, she couldn’t see any sign of the Wilcoxes.

  Or her ghost. It was hard to scan the faces around her without seeming too obvious, but Danica just had to look. Unfortunately, she didn’t see anyone she recognized.

  Her spirits sank, even though she told herself it was entirely possible that the stranger didn’t attend this church. He could be Catholic — Mrs. Wilson had mentioned there was also a Catholic church in Flagstaff — or he could be the type who didn’t feel compelled to get up and go to services every Sunday.

  For all she knew, he wasn’t even in town yet. She had no idea whether he was a resident or someone who’d only been visiting. Her cramped little room had a calendar from a baking powder company hanging in it, with the days past already carefully crossed out by her landlady, and so Danica knew it was now October twelfth. The leaves all around were golden and orange and brown, but they hadn’t begun to really fall yet, so her ghost shouldn’t yet meet his fate at the hands of the Wilcoxes for a few more weeks.

  If one of them was truly the person who had killed him.

  Mrs. Marshall directed Danica to a pew located in the approximate center of the rows of benches on the right-hand side of the church. She took the seat nearest the aisle, while Matthew, the older of Mrs. Marshall’s two boys, sat next to her, with his brother on his right and their mother providing a bookend for the little group. Matthew didn’t look at all discommoded by having to sit next to the new teacher; in fact, his eyes twinkled, and he scooched a little closer to her than was strictly necessary.

  Hot for teacher? she thought with a grin. Well, their hormones did start to rage around that age. At least the older boy would be in his mother’s class, and not Danica’s.

  All around, people were filing dutifully into their pews, taking their positions as if they’d been assigned in advance. Maybe they were. Didn’t there used to be fairly rigid customs about who sat where in church?

  Danica noticed that several pews up near the front on the left-hand side remained empty, although the rest of the church was nearly full by that point. All around, people spoke in quiet voices, waiting for the services to begin.

  Then it seemed as if a shadow fell on the space, although she realized in the next second or two that it was simply because a large group had entered the foyer, blocking a good deal of the bright morning light streaming in through the open front doors of the church. She blinked, while at the same time experiencing the inevitable tingle she always felt when in the presence of witch-kind.

  The latecomers had to be the Wilcoxes.

  This time, it was almost impossible not to stare. How couldn’t she, when she was seeing her ancestors in the flesh, instead of in a faded sepia-toned photograph?

  That must be Jeremiah Wilcox in the lead, a black-haired boy of about six walking next to him. Danica could tell that the Wilcox patriarch noted her immediately — he didn’t exactly pause, but there was the slightest hitch in his step before he continued toward the pews that must have been held aside for his family. Black eyes under heavy black brows surveyed her quickly, and something about that shrewd regard made Danica hold her breath.

  Of course he would be able to tell she was a witch. All she could do was pray that he wouldn’t also be able to tell she was a Wilcox.

  He said nothing, though, and went on to take a seat, the rest of his family members trailing after him. All of the adults also seemed to notice she was not like the other churchgoers, but they appeared to take their cue from Jeremiah and didn’t react, except for possibly the briefest of hesitations. None of the children — and damn, there were a lot of them — seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, but again, they wouldn’t. The ability to sense other witches awoke at the same time a witch’s or warlock’s talent began to show itself, and the oldest of those children appeared to be around nine, too young for their powers to have started to develop.

  Then they were all sitting down, and Danica let out a sigh of relief. From here, she could study them more or less surreptitiously — except for one of the wives, who was quite blonde, the family seemed to be uniformly dark, and better dressed than most of the citizens of Flagstaff she’d seen so far. Well, that made sense; the Wilcoxes had always been prosperous, even as long ago as this.

  The minister, a tall man in late middle age, with thinning hair and a bushy beard to make up for it, approached the pulpit. Danica took that as her cue to more or less tune out. She wasn’t here to be preached to, but to attempt to fit in as best she could. Of course she stood at the appropriate times, and fumbled along with singing hymns the real Eliza Prewitt probably knew by heart, but otherwise, she was far more interested in trying to soak in as many details about the Wilcoxes as she could, from the heavy gold drops hanging from one of the wives’ ears to the gleaming raven-black hair of Jeremiah’s little boy. He seemed darker than all his cousins, who were uniformly dark-haired, but then, Jacob Wilcox was half Navajo.

  At last the service ended, and Danica rose from her pew in relief. Even with all those petticoats and that cage bustle protecting her rear end, she’d begun to feel the bite of the hard edge of the pine bench against the backs of her thighs. She headed toward the exit, the two Marshall boys behind her, and Mrs. Marshall — lord, Danica didn’t even know her first name yet — bringing up the rear.

  As she made her escape outside, though, she could practically feel Jeremiah Wilcox’s black eyes boring into the back of her neck. Crap, he wasn’t going to make a scene here in front of everybody, was he?

  Although of course she’d never heard him speak before, she somehow knew the strong, authoritative voice cutting through the chatter of the crowd must be his.

  “Mrs. Marshall. Is this the new teacher?”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Wilcox. Miss Prewitt?”

  Reluctantly, Danica came to a halt and then turned back toward the schoolmistress. Although the rest of the Wilcox contingent kept going, probably because the children seemed intent on climbing the hay bales that separated the churchyard from the street, Jeremiah had stopped to one side, Mrs. Marshall standing next to him.

  “Yes, Mrs. Marshall?”

  “Miss Prewitt, may I present Mr. Wilcox? He was one of the guiding forces in getting the new schoolhouse built.”

  Since she knew she couldn’t do anything else, Danica extended a hand, saying, “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wilcox.”

  Those black eyes had looked piercing in the portraits she’d seen of him, but they were nothing compared to the reality of them, fixing on her face as if he could somehow drill down into the very essence of her being. Somehow she managed to repress a shiver, while at the same time being very glad of the thin kid covering her fingers so she wouldn’t have to touch him flesh to flesh.

  When he spoke, however, his words were commonplace enough. “And very pleased to meet you, Miss Prewitt. I hope your journey here was not too taxing?”

  “Oh, no. The train was quite comfortable.” Of course she was lying, since she actually hadn’t been on the train at all, but she’d seen movies with Victorian railcars, and they always looked like fun, with the dark wood and the plush upholstery and the dangling fringe on the curtains that framed the windows.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He let go of her hand, but didn’t look away. “I hope you don’t think it’s an imposition, Miss Prewitt, but I was wondering if you would have a spare few minutes this afternoon? So I might discuss some school matters with you, that is.”

  Oh, hell. Danica knew he didn’t really want to talk about the school — he wanted to find out why a young unaccompanied witch was in his territory, so far from where her clan must actually reside. “Well,
I was having supper at Mrs. Marshall’s — ”

  “But not until five,” she broke in. “You would have plenty of time for a talk. And you know, Miss Prewitt, Mr. Wilcox is a very busy man. You should be glad that he is willing to take the time to talk to you about the school.”

  Which ostensibly was the reason why she’d been invited to Mrs. Marshall’s home for supper. However, Danica knew she didn’t dare protest. Surely meeting with him in the parlor at her boarding house couldn’t be too dangerous. Mrs. Wilson had said she might have “gentleman callers,” as long as they didn’t presume to leave the parlor, and were gone by five o’clock.

  Anyway, there didn’t seem to be much point in further protests. Danica had known this confrontation would come; she’d just hoped it wouldn’t arrive quite so soon.

  “Oh, I am glad,” she said. “I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Wilcox. Perhaps this afternoon around two o’clock?” There. That sounded polite enough. She hoped.

  “I’ll see you then, Miss Prewitt,” Jeremiah replied.

  And though his tone was pleasant enough, Danica couldn’t help thinking of those words as a threat.

  * * *

  Meals were included with her room at the boarding house, but on Sundays Mrs. Wilson expected her guests to fend for themselves after breakfast, and to make their own meals using the contents of the pantry. Although there were four rooms to let, only two were currently occupied — Danica’s own, and another by a young woman named Clara DeWitt, who had come out west with her ailing mother in the hopes that the drier air would aid her mother’s tuberculosis. Mrs. DeWitt had succumbed after only a few months, unfortunately, but Clara remained, mostly because she didn’t have the funds to return to Ohio.

  “Not that I’d really want to,” she’d told Danica the night before in a conspiratorial whisper as Mrs. Wilson left the dining room to bring in dessert. “Arizona Territory is so much more exciting. Besides, there are so many more young men here than young women. I just have to decide which one I want.”

  Since Clara was currently working as a clerk in Mr. Brannen’s general store, Danica guessed she had many opportunities to inspect those young men. She was pretty enough, with big blue eyes and thick sandy-blonde hair, and so she probably could pick and choose.

  After church, Danica had gone back to the boarding house while attempting to ignore the growing knot in her stomach. All right, Angela’s experiences on her “spirit walk” had revealed that Jeremiah really wasn’t such a bad guy after all, but in person he was kind of intimidating. Danica knew she’d have to keep on her toes around him.

  Apparently Clara had gone to church with Mrs. Wilson, although Danica hadn’t seen them there. But Clara had certainly seen her, because almost as soon as Danica came in the front door, Clara pounced.

  “What did Mr. Wilcox have to say to you, Eliza?”

  Wonderful. Danica had been contemplating raiding the kitchen to see if any of those amazing buttermilk biscuits from breakfast were left over, but she realized her midday snack was going to be delayed.

  “Nothing, really,” Danica replied. “He only wants to discuss some school matters with me. He is one of the trustees, isn’t he?”

  “I suppose so,” Clara said, looking somewhat let down. Then she perked up a bit. “But isn’t that why you’re having dinner at Mrs. Marshall’s? To discuss the school?”

  Right then, Danica really wished it was possible for well-bred Victorian young ladies to tell someone to mind their own fucking business. Since it wasn’t, she allowed herself a small lift of the shoulders and said, “Yes, but I suppose Mr. Wilcox will want to talk about more of the business aspects, while Mrs. Marshall is going to discuss the curriculum with me.”

  There, she thought in some triumph. That sounded dry and boring enough that hopefully Miss Thang here will move on to something else.

  Danica’s hopes appeared to be borne out, because Clara let out a small sigh. “Oh. Yes, that’s probably it.” But then her mouth pursed, and a certain glint entered her eyes. “He is so very handsome, though, don’t you think?”

  Jesus, that’s my great-great-great-granduncle you’re talking about. Then Danica realized she’d probably left out a “great” or two. Not that it really mattered. “I suppose I hadn’t thought about it.” And maybe she should have been asking the other girl for more information, but something about her fellow boarder set Danica’s teeth on edge. She figured she’d find out most of what she needed to on her own.

  Clara shot her a disbelieving look, but appeared to decide the matter wasn’t worth pursuing. “By the way, Mrs. Wilson always says she won’t cook for us on Sundays, but there’s vegetable soup to go with those leftover biscuits.”

  Perfect. A light meal, just enough to fortify her for her meeting with Jeremiah Wilcox. Danica had been a little worried about having to scrounge for herself; it wasn’t as if she could wander off down the street to Chipotle for a burrito.

  She smiled and thanked Clara for the information, and headed toward the kitchen. The Wilcox primus would be here in an hour, and Danica knew she had to be on her game when she saw him, or this whole enterprise might be over before it had even gotten started.

  * * *

  When he arrived, Jeremiah Wilcox knocked politely on the door, just like any normal caller might. No lightning bolts, no puff of smoke. Not that Danica had really expected him to do anything that would call attention to himself. The Wilcox clan had survived all those years precisely because they knew how to blend in.

  “Mr. Wilcox,” she said politely as she held open the door for him to enter. Mrs. Wilson had told her that she should treat the boarding house as her own home, and that meant greeting her own callers, as the older woman didn’t employ any servants, except a boy who came around once a week to clean up the yard and take out the garbage.

  “Miss Prewitt,” Jeremiah Wilcox replied. He stood just inside the entryway, dark eyes taking in every detail of the interior of the house. “It’s such a fine day. I was wondering if perhaps you would like to walk with me?”

  Damn. Danica had been counting on the protection Mrs. Wilson’s presence would provide. She was in the little sitting room off her own bedroom, knitting away at what looked like a scarf or muffler. Not that the landlady would be of much use if Jeremiah Wilcox really tried anything, but to go strolling off with him, alone?

  His gaze flickered upward, and Danica heard the distinct creak of the topmost stair. Clara lurking up there, probably, trying to listen in, just in case the conversation between the two of them ranged to topics a little more interesting than her teacher’s contract.

  Time to acknowledge defeat. No, she really didn’t want to go off somewhere with Jeremiah Wilcox, but neither did she want Clara to overhear anything they might have to say to one another. Trying to explain away a discussion about witch clans would be a nightmare.

  “Of course, Mr. Wilcox,” Danica said. “Just let me go fetch my shawl and hat.” That was right, wasn’t it? A lady wasn’t supposed to go outside without her head covered.

  She managed a smile before heading up to her room to retrieve the items in question. As she did so, she saw Clara’s door shutting quietly.

  Yeah, about what I thought.

  After settling the shawl around her shoulders and securing her hat with a pin, Danica descended the staircase. “All ready, Mr. Wilcox.”

  For a second, it looked as if he was going to offer her his arm, but instead he reached out and opened the door. “After you, Miss Prewitt.”

  Relieved, Danica stepped out onto the porch and waited for him to shut the door firmly behind them. “There’s rather a fine park two streets over,” he said. “I thought we could walk there.”

  That sounded safe enough. A park in the afternoon on a nice October day — there had to be families there with their children, or at least other people walking around and getting some fresh air. Taking a constitutional, as the Victorians might have put it. Not exactly the sort of place for a dark warlock to try something n
efarious.

  All right, Jeremiah Wilcox wasn’t really a dark warlock. Even so, he was someone who didn’t care much about the rules…which meant he was still dangerous.

  Danica fell in beside him as he led her down the porch steps to the dusty street. No wonder women of the day had detachable dust ruffles that buttoned onto the inside of their skirts and petticoats; otherwise, their gowns would quickly become too filthy to wear.

  It was good to distract herself by thinking about such trivialities, because then she couldn’t focus as much on the insane realization that she was walking down the street in old-time Flagstaff with the family’s patriarch by her side. Danica didn’t think of herself as short, even by modern standards, but the man walking next to her seemed to tower over her. But maybe that was partly because of the long black coat and wide-brimmed black hat he wore.

  They reached the park, which was a little oasis in the center of town, with a pond off to one side and a nice stand of aspen trees, now flaming yellow, on the other. The grass was yellow as well, but probably fresh and green in the summer months. She found herself wondering if they skated on that pond in the winter, with those funny skates people used to strap on over their shoes.

  More distractions….

  Jeremiah stopped near the stand of aspens, in a spot well away from the children playing near the pond, or the young couple that had spread a blanket on the frost-yellowed grass and were sharing some kind of picnic meal. Yes, he stood a decorous distance away from her, and they were clearly in plain sight of anyone who might pass by. Even so, Danica had to struggle to keep herself from shaking.

  Voice quiet, he said, “What are you doing in my territory, Miss Prewitt…if that truly is your name?”

  She swallowed. “Just as you were told, Mr. Wilcox. I’ve come here to teach school.”

  An eyebrow lifted. “One young witch, all alone? You’re clearly not one of the de la Paz clan, and I don’t think you’re one of the McAllisters, either. You don’t have that look about you.”