Rampant

“See,” he teased, when they drew apart, “now you’re beginning to think about it, aren’t you?”

Laughing breathily, she nodded, arching one eyebrow at him. “Pays to have a good teacher, I guess.”

He was genuinely pleased. “Come on, let’s go in to the back room and get more comfortable. I have more wine, and I can offer you ice cream.”

Her libido wanted to play naughty. “You want to cool me down with ice cream?”

“Not in the least. I’d like to feed you the ice cream, though, if you are willing.”

Naughty got naughty back, nice.

“And we can talk some more.” He patted her on the bottom when she stood up. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

The slow simmer made her feel warm all over, warm and happy. When she went into the sitting room she wandered over to the small desk that was stacked high with books. A laptop was perched on one end, a cold half cup of coffee next to it. She gravitated toward the leather-bound volumes teetering at the near end and lifted one. It had a faded blue-black cover. There was a raised pattern on the cover with traces of gold leaf, as if it had once been highly decorated and embossed, but had been worn away by the many hands opening the book. She could see no title.

A slim ruler bookmarked a page. She opened it. Dense black print covered the pages edge to edge. The pages were thick and yellowing compared to anything she might pick up to read herself, the edges of each sheet scalloped, as if the paper had been handmade. The language was old English and hard to follow.

Turning the pages carefully, she studied the illustrations. Several drawings seemed to depict tools, dubious looking they were, too. She flicked forward quickly, until she came to a rather badly drawn map of the area. The coastline wasn’t quite accurate, but she could make out some familiar place names.

On the next page there was a line drawing of an old woman. A crone in rags, hunched and toothless. Only a few strands of long, straggly hair grew from her skull-like head, and her nose was hooked, her eyeballs loose in their sockets. The illustration bore Annabel McGraw’s name.

Zoë’s eyebrows lifted, and she couldn’t hold back her amusement, laughing aloud. It didn’t look a bit like her. Well, it didn’t look a bit like the woman she’d seen in her mirror. Maybe that wasn’t Annabel at all.

“Found something interesting?” Grayson was at her side, a glass of wine in each hand. He set them down on the desk and looked at the page she was examining. “Ah, our friend Annabel.”

“Did she look like this? Do you know?”

“The historians who documented these stories at the time tended to be religious zealots who were convinced witches are evil and had to be burned out.”

He spoke so calmly and rationally about things that should have been unnatural to her, and yet his bemused, seductive tone compelled her to believe.

“The tradition is to show the archetypal, ugly face of evil, and it’s meant to repel, to bring about fear in the reader. Whether it was true or not, we can only guess. Annabel died before she reached the age of thirty, however, so would she have looked like this?”

“Good point.” Her curiosity was rising all the time. What was Annabel really like? So many stories, and yet there she was, in ghostly form, wandering around the house next door.

Grayson picked up Cat, who had followed him in. He carried him to the window at the back of the room, opened it and lifted the cat up to the windowsill so he could clamber through. Then he wandered off to the kitchen again, and Zoë stared back down at the drawing of the old crone. That wasn’t what Annabel looked like. Although it was funny, it was kind of annoying that anyone would think she did look that way. Bit of a cheek, really.

Of course, being a gorgeous femme fatale didn’t mean that she was a purehearted soul, and that was part of what was being portrayed here. What was she really like, Zoë wondered? As she did, her spine tingled. She ran a hand around the back of her neck, were she felt a rising sense of anxiety.

That’s when she heard the voice.

Do you want to know me? Really know me?

The words whispered around her mind, low and enticing. Zoë tried to shake it off, but the question whispered around her mind again.

“She knows I’m curious,” she said aloud, surprised, but fascinated, too. She couldn’t deny it. She did want to know. Just as her mother had wanted to see and know a ghost, Zoë wanted to know more about the ghost that had shown itself to her. Even as she admitted that to herself, she felt dizzy, and reached for the edge of the desk. It didn’t help. Her perception was shifting.

Look into my world, and know me.

Grayson would be back in a moment. She could hear him moving around next door. And yet she stared at the adjoining wall between this house and Her Haven, because the voice whispering around her mind compelled her to look, and learn.

She took a deep, steadying breath, and blinked. Right before her eyes, she could see it all, as if she were looking through the wall and into Her Haven—and into a different time altogether….

The preacher is here in Her Haven. Look and you will see him. Mean, lonely, and bitter with regret, he is here to tell me that his is the righteous path and I should be glad to follow it. And yet I do not see him holding the hand of the dying, or doing a good turn. He is too busy poking his beaky nose where it is not wanted.

He steps tentatively across my threshold, as if he might fall into hell if he treads wrongly, his wily eyes on me as he dares to enter into my kitchen. He doesn’t have proof that I practice the craft, but he surely suspects it.

“I will have to continue with my chores while you visit with me, Reverend Slater,” I state, annoyed. “I cannot leave the dough now.” I busy myself again at the table. In truth I was expecting Ewan, and I want the dough on the baking stone in the fire before he arrives. But the preacher has called in order to do his duty and attempt to save my sorry soul from Satan’s grasp.