Short Stories

Magic's Daughter

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Cassionetta's terrified. Her mother, a world-renowned psychic, is dying, lost behind some sort of psychic veil. Oh, Eleanora is still alive—barely—but she hasn't spoken a word in nearly a year. Putting her software engineering skills to good use, Cassie tries to design an electronic version of the Ouija Board to rescue her mother. Jeremy, with the clairvoyance of the gifted, warns Cassie about her scumbag boyfriend and the futility of the e-Ouija project, but Cassie's not listening. At least not until things begin happening and her life hangs in the balance. As she and Jeremy battle the forces of darkness holding Eleanora in thrall, Cassie warms to him in ways she never could have anticipated.

America the Horrific

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This anthology includes tales of true hauntings at a variety of places in America. Using sort of a Tales from the Crypt motif, a group of travelers are stranded when their bus breaks down. They chose to wile away the time telling scary tales. I was intrigued when I saw Bards and Sages call for submissions for this anthology and my story, The Benson Hut Ghost, seemed like a natural for a topic. Guess it was since they accepted it. I've had a chance to read the rest of the tales and they're really quite diverse. The Kindle version is only $2.99 and I'd encourage anyone to settle in with this hair-raising bunch of ghost stories.

 

 

 

The Oracle

“Cassandra! Time to git up, ya lazy slut.”

She waited, cringing away from the rough male voice, but the nudge from his hob-nailed boot in her already-bruised ribs didn’t come. Ugh! He was bending down closer to her. The cloyingly rancid odor from his unwashed body and rotting teeth was almost unbearable. Burying her nose in the crook of one arm, she tried to block it out.

“There’s people that’ll be here soon. Git up so’s you can make yerself look a bit more presentable.”

“Yes, I’m up.” She rolled over, then came up short as the manacles and chain reached their limit. Opening green eyes flecked with gold, she scowled at her captor. Well, let’s be honest here, she thought. This is only the most recent one in a very long string, dating back to when the Greeks pulled Hecuba and me out of Troy… Damn Apollo anyway. Should just have lied to him. Except I couldn’t. “Are you going to unlock me?” she demanded.

Gretch rocked back on his heels and looked appraisingly at her. “Does ya promise to be good?”

“If you’re asking if I’m going to try to run away again, the answer is ‘no’.” She still remembered the whipping he’d administered after catching her sneaking down to the riverbank, manacles and all, to try to wade across.

Iron dimmed her power. It was still there, just much harder to access. Things hadn’t actually been too bad until some misogynistic cleric in the fifteen hundreds had gotten the idea of binding witches in chains. She winced. Her life since then hadn’t been worth much. Not much at all. Inner laughter chimed bitterly. Witch trials! Hah! All they’d provided had been a handy excuse to burn mostly-innocent women, so their falsely-devout husbands could find someone younger…or prettier.

Pulling a large key from a filthy pocket, Gretch reached for her wrist, inserted the key and pulled on the iron bracelet. Rusty hinges groaned, then popped open. She rubbed at her wrist, then mutely held the other out for him. “Now ya go behind the wagon and wash up. Ya gots straw in that hair of yourn. And yer face is dirty. Don’t try nothin’. I gots sharp ears, I does.”

Anger surfaced quickly, but she reined it in. What she wanted to do was scream at him. Your entire body is riddled with lice; and you smell so bad you turn my stomach. How dare you complain about me? The way you keep me under lock and key… What in the Goddess’s name do you expect? Cassandra stumbled to her feet, still rubbing at her wrists. The iron burned. When she was chained it felt as if her skin was on fire wherever the unclean metal touched her. Gold now, or silver…or even bronze. Those were metals worthy of her. But iron? Laying eyes on the bucket of sour water behind the wagon, she recoiled. Why did he have to use the same bucket he used to pick up horse shit? “Gretch,” she called.

“Yes, yer highness?” Sarcasm dripped through his tones. She knew he wouldn’t come round the wagon unbidden. For some reason he was afraid that if he saw her unclothed she’d ensorcel him. Well, he wasn’t far wrong. That was how she’d gotten away from the last two. Once they spilled their seed in her, they were hers; and it was a simple enough matter to steal a few coins and fade away unnoticed. Maybe, just maybe, that might work here, too. She’d seen the bulge in his breeches as he gawked at her, lying helpless in her chains. Once she’d even caught him watering the ground with his semen. Though she’d waited for Aphrodite to strike him down for such sacrilege, it hadn’t happened. Were the old gods still there? Their responses to things just seemed so…so desultory these days.

“I need clean water, Gretch. I can’t wash in horse shit. How about if you take me down to the river?” She held her breath, hoping that, given the choice between escorting her to the river or dumping, then refilling, the heavy bucket, he’d chose the former. But he might just order her to wash in the fetid water and be done with it. Once when she’d complained, he’d upended the bucket over her head. Now, that had earned him censure from the gods in the form of a sudden lightning storm; but she was sure he hadn’t made the connection.

“Are ya decent?”

“Yes, Gretch. All my clothes are still on,” she replied wearily.

His head poked cautiously around the corner of the garish wagon emblazoned with, Mr. Smythe’s Traveling Wonders. “I’ll take ya to the river. If ya tries to run, I’ll have the law on ya for a witch and ya’ll be burned. Does ya understand me?” Watery blue eyes looked at her through stringy black hair that fell in greasy strands around his smallpox-scarred face. He was on the short side for a man, but surprisingly strong with a wiry, fireplug build.

“I understand. Let’s go.” Cassandra pushed her heavy red hair back over her shoulders, and drew herself up to her full height of close to six feet, before setting off at a brisk pace for the creek. She longed for the feel of Demeter’s clean water laving her skin, washing away the iron residue that still tingled unpleasantly. “Um, Gretch? Thanks for leaving those manacles off. I give you my word that I won’t run.”

“Yer word don’t mean much.”

“How could you possibly know that?"

“Cause witches always lie.”

Green eyes hot enough to scorch silk, she rounded to face him, blocking the path. “I am not a witch. How many times must we go through this? You advertise me as an oracle. You’ve seen that at least some of the things I predict come true…” And I’m destined to not have anyone believe a thing that I say, she finished silently.

“Git on, then. I’m right behind ya.”

Shoulders sagging, she headed back down the worn path to the creek. As soon as she got to the water, she slipped out of her ill-fitting boots, then reached down to pull her shift off over her head.

“Just wash yer hands and face. Forgit yer body.”

Hands clutching the sides of her thin dress, she turned to face him, noting his arousal with practiced eyes. “You don’t have to look,” she said, whipping the cloth over her head as she turned back to the life-sustaining clean water, waded in and crouched in the shallows. I’ll just keep my back to him. That way if he wants to violate Aphrodite’s precepts and spill himself on the ground, he can delude himself that I don’t know what he’s doing.

Cassandra cupped water in her hands and began cleaning herself. The water was cool, but not so cold as to create discomfort. How long had it been since she’d had a proper bath? Not since she’d been with Gretch. That was certain. And how long had that been, anyway? One month? No, probably closer to two…or even three. She’d lived so long that she’d stopped keeping track of time eons ago. What wretched luck it had been that Apollo’s curse had included immortality…or had that come along with the gift of prophecy? She’d never been quite sure. And then, there was the unfortunate fact that, while she could see everyone else’s future, her own had always remained stubbornly dark.

She waded out further into the stream, finding a conveniently deep pool. Dropping her head back, she used sand to scrub the grease from her thick hair. It felt utterly ambrosial to shed the accumulated layers of grime. As she sent a hasty prayer up to Demeter, she heard a muffled gasp from the bank and figured that Gretch had reached his climax. I’ll give him a few minutes to pull himself back together, she told herself, rinsing the last of the sand out of her hair. She half turned, just to give him a tantalizing glimpse of one curved breast, before backing out of the creek. If I could just coax Aphrodite’s blessing from him, I’d be gone from here. And a hell of a lot more careful traveling the by-ways in witch-riddled New England from here on in…

***

“Ladies and Gentlemen, come visit the Oracle. She never lies. Ask her what ya will. She’s bound by the gods to tell ya nothin’ but the truth. Come on up. Don’t be shy…”

Cassandra, her hair still damp, was wearing the buckskin dress with fringe and beads that Gretch forced her to don for these occasions.

“But I’ll look like an Indian,” she’d protested the first time she’d seen it. “They know nothing of predicting the future. Besides, it doesn’t fit me. It’s too small.”

He’d told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t about to spend money on material so that she could make a new dress. Then, she’d simply plucked the rest from his mind… An exiled Pawnee squaw had wandered through his camp a few months before. He’d had his way with her, starved and beaten her, then buried her after she’d died. This had been her dress. Cassandra shuddered every time she put it on. The dead woman’s sorrow, still clinging to the well-chewed leather, made the dress feel like a shroud.

The crowd was smaller tonight. Maybe only twenty-five people. She glanced at them, scrying their secrets as plainly as if they’d been stenciled on their foreheads. A heavily pregnant woman waddled forward, swatting at a slender twit of a man grabbing for her arm. “I want to know if I’m to have a son this time,” she demanded. “Nothing but daughters so far…three of ‘em. We’ve nobody to help much in the fields.” She hesitated. “And, Oracle, if this,” she flicked at the bulge of her belly, “is another daughter. What must I do to have sons?”

“May I touch you?” Cassandra inquired. The woman’s eyes widened, then her head jerked forward in hesitant acquiescence. Laying a gentle hand on the woman’s swollen abdomen, Cassandra closed her eyes as she called to Athena, asking for her wisdom. Under her questing hand the infant rolled over in its watery home, kicking softly. The corners of Cassandra’s mouth flickered upwards. “’Tis a boy,” she said. “But it will be a difficult birth. He is turned within you. You will need a midwife. Your time will come upon you soon…within a fortnight. If there is not a skilled woman here, you will want to travel to find one.”

“Thank you for the news.” The woman placed a coin in Cassandra’s hand. “But there’s no need for a wise woman. You are mistaken. All my other births have been quick and easy.”

“You would do well to heed me.” Cassandra implored. “If you do not, your son will be stillborn.” White showed around the woman’s pupils. Her nostrils flared, and she made the sign against evil as she faded back into the crowd. Destined to speak the truth, except those who hear it won’t believe you…

A man stepped forward. He was well-dressed, and handsome in a rakish sort of way. Brown curls framed a strong-boned face, and clear, gray eyes twinkled above several days’ growth of stubble on his cheeks and chin.

“Louisa.” He looked right at her while he called her by a name not hers. “What on earth are you doing here, love. I’ve been looking for you for months now. Please come home. The children miss you.”

Gretch stepped out of the shadows. “Ya think this woman is yer wife, sir?” He sounded incredulous. “She didn’t tell me she had no kin nowhere. And I did ask, yes I did.”

The other man swung round, hand extended. “Why, yes.” He glanced up at the wagon, “Smythe, is it? Louisa is my wife.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “She has a bit of trouble now and then. Forgets who she is and wanders off.”

“And ya are?” Gretch asked disbelievingly, his rheumy blue eyes narrowed as he took in the expensive cut of the other man’s clothing and his hand-tooled leather boots.

“Cameron Tracy,” the stranger replied, hand still extended.

Ignoring the proffered hand, Gretch turned towards Cassandra. “Do ya recognize this man, Cassandra?”

She knew she’d never seen him before in the entirety of her ridiculously long life. What should I do? Cassandra tried to look into the stranger, but, for once, she couldn’t see a thing. Where will I be better off? Ach, I know what I’ve got here…and it’s not very damn much. “Cameron,” she beamed warmly. “What a lovely surprise.” And, she threw herself into his arms. Pretty close to the truth. After all, whoever he is, he’s quite the surprise. Questing outwards as she clasped the tall stranger, she still found nothing. It was as if her gift had run up against an iron wall.

“There, there, Louisa. Come along now. Do you have anything here that you’d like to bring with us?”

She shook her head. “This dress isn’t even mine. Just wait a minute while I get out of it and into my own clothes.” Cassandra ran lightly up the steps and into the interior of the wagon. Catching Gretch’s repulsive smell that permeated everything he touched, she was glad for this Cameron person…if that was his real name. No matter what happened next, it could hardly be worse than Gretch, with his stink and the lasciviousness which was bound to do her in sooner or later. He wanted her, and hated himself for that weakness. She could feel his loathing, mixed with lust, whenever he looked at her. It was a volatile combination. She’d been in some bad situations before, but Gretch was just about as disgusting a person as she’d ever had to put up with. Maybe Demeter had heard her prayers at the river today…

“You’re not goin’ nowhere. You ain’t got no husband. That’s nothin’ but a damned lie.” Gretch’s voice, pitched low so that the people outside wouldn’t hear him, raked across her nerves. He’d crept silently up the steps while she was lost in thought. Now he stood, blocking the wagon’s only door as she tried to shoulder past him. “Ya put on a smile, git on out there and tell some more fortunes. We needs money.”

“If you don’t let me leave, I’ll scream. That ought to bring someone in here to see what’s going on.” Freedom was so close. Desperation swept through her and she contemplated trying to push Gretch over backwards down the steps.

“Something amiss, Louisa?” There was the stranger. He’d walked round to the stairs and was standing just below Gretch, smiling up at her.

“No, nothing. I’m ready, dear.” She looked down at whomever it was that had saved her. Reaching over, she dropped the coin from the pregnant woman onto a small table bolted to the side of the wagon. “There you go,” she told Gretch. “The coin should be mine, since I earned it with my prophecy, but I shall leave it for you as a sign of good faith.” Will he let me go? Will he?

“You’ve not seen the last of me,” he hissed, spraying her with tobacco-flecked saliva, before turning to stomp down the rickety steps, pushing Cameron out of the way as he did so. Disgusted, she wiped the spittle off her face.

“Come along,” Cameron repeated, holding out a hand to guide her down the stairs. “I only have one horse with me, but you can ride. I’ll lead him. There’s a town not too far up the way. We’ll stop at the inn for what’s left of tonight.”

She followed him to the other side of the rutted track where he’d left a bay gelding casually tied to a convenient branch. Vaulting smartly onto the animal’s back, she nodded to him as she handed down the reins. Grabbing them, he led the animal north along the dark lane. Time passed. When she was sure they were well away from Gretch and his wagon, she asked softly, “Who are you, really?”

“Why does that matter to you?”

Cassandra thought about that. “Perhaps a more pertinent question, sir, might be why you took it upon yourself to rescue me.”

He chuckled, a soft sound that caressed her in the darkness. “You needed rescuing,” he replied.

“Yes, but how could you tell?”

“Why does that matter?”

Ach, back to where we were five minutes ago, she thought. “You do know I’m not your long lost wife,” she persisted.

“I don’t have a wife. Not yet, anyway.” Despite the darkness, and the fact that his face was turned away from her, she was nearly certain that he was smiling.

“Is Cameron your real name?”

“What do you think?”

“Why do you answer all my questions with others of your own?” She felt frustrated. In spite of that, though, she was pretty sure she wasn’t in any immediate danger. How would you know? her inner voice demanded. Your gifts seem to be useless around him. And, they didn’t help you much when you let Gretch get hold of you, either… It’s the gods. “The inn is just around this next bend. I plan to ask for a single room in case Smythe comes snooping after us. I heard him threaten you, there on the stairs. But don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

She hadn’t been worried…about that anyway. In fact, she found Cameron, well, undeniably appealing. He seemed to exude an unconscious sensuality, the like of which she’d not seen since the Roman Empire had fallen. It was Christianity that had tolled the death knell for sex. All their foolish rules about who could couple with whom. It was enough to make your head fall off. What earthly difference would it make if a maid fucked her second cousin? Yet, that had turned into a hanging offense—at least for the maid—as the Church became stronger and stronger. There had been hundreds of years when clerics were practically the only ones who could read and write, which had given them an absurd advantage over everyone else. The goddess-forsaken black robes just wrote things down, presented their drivel as god’s word and that had been that. She made a small clucking noise, lost in the distant reaches of the past.

Misunderstanding her, he spoke hesitantly. “If it bothers you that much, I suppose I could get two rooms. But, until we are out of this region, I believe it best if we at least look married…since I announced it in front of so many people. Gretch will not be the only one gossiping about the Oracle whose husband finally caught up with her.”

“The room is fine. I was thinking of…other things.”

***

They’d barely gotten to the public house in time. The innkeeper had been in the process of locking his doors for the night just as they’d come walking up. Dashing ahead, Cameron had done something—likely a silver piece or two had done the trick—and the proprietor had found them a room. “Kitchen’s closed for the evening,” the plump man in the stained apron had cautioned. I can get you a loaf and a couple of tankards, though, to take up to your lodgings.”

“That would be nice. Thank you.” Cassandra smiled at the innkeeper. “And, thank you for finding space for us for tonight.”

“You’re most welcome, ma’am.” The man had looked sharply at her, and she wondered if word of the amnestic oracle had preceded their arrival; though she didn’t see how that could have been possible since no one had passed them on the road. “You’re in the last room on the right, up those stairs there.” The innkeeper gestured. “I’ll have those beers and that bread out presently.”

“Why don’t you go on up, love,” Cameron murmured. “I know how tired you must be. I’ll be along with our food and drink.” He sat down at one of the long, trestle tables lining the common room, crossed his legs and propped his head up on a closed fist.

Nodding, Cassandra mounted the stairs, noting that the risers were uneven enough to demand her attention. Finding their room easily since there were only four, two on each side of a central hall, she pushed the door open. Spying a candle stub stuck into what was likely a nail on a wooden board, she looked round for matches. There didn’t seem to be any. Should I? she asked herself. Deciding that any magic—even something so small as bringing fire—probably wasn’t a very good idea, she went back down to the common room, scooped up a couple of matches off the top of the hearth, blew an airy kiss at Cameron and returned to their room.

Once the candle had been lit, she looked at the small, neat space tucked under the eaves of the two-story building. A bed, barely big enough for one, was shoved against one wall. Sniffing at the mattress, she noted with satisfaction that the straw was reasonably fresh. A small table with two cane-back chairs sat under the room’s one window. She unhooked the shutter, and a refreshingly chilly breeze wafted in. Admiring the nearly-full moon, just cresting the horizon, she sent a prayer to Diana, wondering idly if Apollo’s twin was still watching over that glowing orb. After a bit, she heard a gentle tapping at the door. Opening it, she moved aside so that Cameron could enter their room.

“Not bad,” he murmured, looking around the small space as he set the beer and bread on the table. “The proprietor took pity on us and put some butter and cheese in with the bread.”

“Mmmmmm…hungry.” Her hands were already scrabbling in the basket for the bread. “It’s been quite awhile since I’ve had enough to eat.” Picking up a tankard, she took a long swallow of beer. The mildly alcoholic beverage hadn’t really aged long enough, but it tasted wonderful to her. She swiped at her mouth to get rid of the foamy residue on her lips.

“Other than beating you and starving you, did that bastard do anything else to you?” The words were quiet, but they had a deadly edge to them.

Cassandra stared at him, shocked. How could he have known? “I guess I just told you he didn’t feed me enough, but I never said anything about anything else. Why would you think he hurt me?”

“Because he had the look of a man that would do such things,” Cameron replied, sipping at his own beer. Raising a hand to forestall further questions from her, he added, “Finish your bread and drink your beer. It’s past time for sleep. We should be up and gone early.”

“They usually serve breakfast at places like this…” she began.

“We’ll be gone long before that,” he interrupted. “We’ll need another horse, though. I’m hoping there’ll be a stable here I can buy one from.”

“If we wait for the stable to open, we can wait for breakfast. I’ve missed about as many meals as I plan to.” There was that soft laughter again. It reminded her of springtime in warmer climes, redolent of newly sprung plants and delicate flowers. “Did that amuse you?” Her tone was sharper than she’d meant for it to be. “I’m tired of being hungry all the time. That’s all.”

“Yes, Cassandra. I understand. Would you like for me to try to beg some more bread from the kitchen?”

She shook her head. “No. No point in drawing any more attention to ourselves.” Latching the window, she moved the candle to the table. “You can blow that out when you’re done with it. Bed was a good idea. I’m exhausted.”

Kissing him lightly on one cheek, she whispered, “Thank you. You’ve done me a great kindness, sir.”

***

Wrapping his cloak about him, Cameron watched her sleeping. There was something both youthful and timeless about her classically sculpted face, with its high cheekbones and lush, red lips. Abundant coppery hair, released from its pins, fanned out over the thin pillow, a few strands falling onto the floor from the low bed. What got into me? he wondered. She wasn’t part of the plan. Actually, stopping at that ludicrous medicine show hadn’t been part of the plan, either. He’d ridden right by it on the road, and then been drawn back by…something. In fact, he’d been a good half mile beyond Smythe’s wagon before a voice inside his head had begun hammering mercilessly at him, insisting that he retrace his steps. He couldn’t quite recall when a sending from, well, from wherever they came from, had been quite so pervasive.

She really was lovely, this Cassandra. Was it really her? Could it possibly be after all this time? He’d watched from the shadows as that pregnant woman had sought her counsel, then denied its accuracy.

Perhaps it truly was her…come to life from the ancient myths.

While a creature of spirit, forged by Sidhe magic in the old country, Cameron wasn’t nearly as primordial as she…if the woman on the bed really was her. But it must be, he told himself. That has to be why I felt that enormous pressure to help her. It didn’t come from her. It came from the gods. Could it be that they’re still watching out for us, even though no one prays to them anymore? For a moment, he felt hopeful. Then sadness came rushing in. In his mind’s eye, he saw empty altars all through the Scottish highlands and the Irish hills. Painfully deserted places where people had once brought offerings, grateful for what their gods could do.

Railing against the Christian god, he swore softly. “Herne take the bloody Church.” Even as he said the words, he realized the futility of his despair. Over time Christianity had managed to insidiously and systematically replace once-living gods with their dead one. The Middle Ages had been such a wretched time that people—smallfolk and lords alike—had grasped greedily at the salvation promised by the new religion. Never mind that deliverance from misery wasn’t supposed to come until the afterlife. Rewards in this life for gullibility had run the gamut, from hangings and confiscated property, to maiden daughters fucked by the priests before—and after—being tossed into nunneries. Oh yes, I’ve seen it all, and far too many times… He shuddered, reliving his anguish all over again as the image of Leda, his own sweet Leda burned at the stake, floated up from the bottom of his soul. The dead god made arbitrary rules about what people shouldn’t do. He’d known for hundreds of years that the dead god was just that…dead. It was actually those black-robed nightmares that passed for priests who made the rules, enforcing them with brutal efficiency.

Cassandra stirred, murmuring in her sleep. He blew out the candle and shut his eyes. He knew he could doze sitting up. He’d done it lots of times. When they’d imprisoned him in The Clink in Southwark in sixteen-eighty-three after Leda’s death, he’d been chained to a damp, moldy wall for months, with only rats for company. He’d had to do everything sitting then. Wincing, he remembered rotting in his own filth. It had taken more time than he cared to think about for the festering sores on his skin to heal. If there hadn’t been that prison uprising, he supposed he would have swung along with all the other heretics. Damn the sodding Church of England, anyway…and the Catholics, too.

***

“Time to get up.” Someone was rocking her gently. Green eyes flying open, she looked at him as he knelt beside the bedstead, dark smudges beneath his fine, gray eyes; and she opened her arms in a silent invitation. Smiling faintly, he shook his head. “No time for that, Cassandra. The sun’s up. We need to leave soon.”

“Breakfast?” Her voice sounded fuzzy to her. Swallowing, she tried again. “You don’t have that horse yet, do you?” He shook his head. “Then there’s likely time to eat. I think I smell bread.” She wrinkled her nose, sniffing.

“I’m on my way out to find another mount for us.” He spoke brusquely. “Get yourself up. I’ll meet you in the common room. If there’s something ready by the time I return, we can eat. And, try to remember your name.”

She smiled, a slow, lazy affair that lit up her mossy eyes. “I think I can do that.” He just looked at her with an odd expression—joy and something indefinable struggling for ascendency on his finely wrought features—before letting himself out into the corridor.

She didn’t think there’d been any other guests at the inn the previous night. If there had been, they’d been quiet as ghosts. I haven’t slept as well as that in months, she reflected as she ran her fingers through her tangled locks in lieu of a comb. Looking under the low bed, she found the chamber pot, used it and shoved it back to its designated spot. She stretched, laying her palms flat against the low ceiling. Well, nothing for it but to go downstairs, she told herself, remembering to take care with the uneven steps.

The common room was empty, but someone had lit a fire in the stone hearth. Sitting as close to its warmth as she could get, Cassandra kept a close eye on the swinging door that she presumed went into the kitchen. There was bread baking. The odor was much more pronounced down here. Her mouth watered, and she wiped at it, feeling mildly ashamed of the trail of saliva. That’s what happens when you’re starving, she reminded herself grimly. “Oracle?” A thready voice came out of nowhere.

She searched the shadows, seeking its origin. “Yes? Come closer whoever you are. I won’t hurt you.”

A maid of, perhaps, thirteen crept barefoot from a darkened hall. “You be the lady who tells the future?” The child bent over as a deep, phlegmy cough shook her slight frame.

“Yes, child. How can I help you?”

“Me Da, he tol’ me not t’ bother you. He says I’ll get better, but, Oracle, I think I am a-dyin’ and I want to know so’s I might make my peace with the Christian god. Me Ma, she prays to the Old Ones see, and I used to be leavin’ ‘em milk and corn, too, but I wants to get into heaven.” Another fit of coughing ripped through her; and she spat a glob of bloody mucus onto the ground, wiping at it with one foot.

Oh my, I don’t need my gift to answer you, child. “You need to return to your bed,” Cassandra began, but the child interrupted her.

“Am I a-dying, Oracle?”

Cassandra met the child’s dark brown eyes, rimmed with the pain of the wasting sickness that was gradually sucking the life out of her. She opened her mouth to try to craft a soothing lie, but nothing came.

“Would the missus like some coffee?” The innkeeper had emerged from the kitchen carrying a mug and a pot. Noticing his daughter, his brows drew together. “Bessie, you get on back to the kitchen. I’ll not have you bothering the guests. I told you that afore.”

“Yes, Papa,” the child mumbled before turning to leave.

“Sorry for that, missus. Child’s got the grippe. I’m sure she’ll be better soon. How about coffee? I made some up fresh for you.”

“Yes, please.” She struggled to expunge the specter of the dying child from her mind. Should I tell him, so he can prepare for her loss? Ach, probably best to not interfere… Besides, he wouldn’t believe me anyway. “My, uh,” she stumbled over the word husband, then tried again. “What I mean to say is that Cameron is out looking to find another horse. I’m sure he’ll want some coffee too, when he gets back here.”

“Yes, he certainly would.” Cameron had just let himself in through the main door. “Found you a nice little filly, love. She cost us dear, but she’s perfect for you. I took her around to the stables and told the boy to get her and my bay ready to go.”

“Might I interest you in breakfast to go with that coffee,” the proprietor interrupted, apparently concerned that his only paying customers might leave before he’d had a chance to sell them something further.

“Sure, so long as it doesn’t take long to prepare,” Cameron replied. “We have a long ways to go today.”

“Eggs, bread and cheese?”

“Perfect,” Cassandra said. “We can eat those as we ride.”

***

They’d been traveling for hours through thick timber. In fact, the vegetation was so dense that Cassandra doubted they’d be able to force their horses through the undergrowth, were they to leave the track. Along the well-beaten road, she’d managed to pick out pines, firs, poplars, aspens, oaks and sycamores, plus fragrant ferns and other shrubbery intermingled with the tree boles. The summer sun was warm on her hair; and she was enjoying the

feel of a horse between her legs again. As they rode, she’d been waiting to see what Cameron chose to tell her. After an entire morning of silence, though, she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Where are we going?”

“Wondered when you’d get around to asking about that.” He grinned at her. His somber mood from earlier seemed to have lifted.

“Well, are you going to tell me?”

“Sure. We’re headed across the state of New York, then on into Canada. More precisely, we’re on our way to Caldwell. From there we’ll board a steamer traveling north on Lake George. Next, we’ll head to Fort Ticonderoga. Then it’s another steamer on up Lake Champlain. That will get us to Canada.”

“Why there?”

“If anyone stops and asks us, that’s our home. In Montreal.” He hesitated. “The real reason, though, is that they’re more tolerant of those like us in that country. That’s where I was headed anyway…before I found you. Plus, the United States is only a handful of steps away from an internal war. I’ve fought in lots of wars I didn’t believe in. Wasn’t much interested in being conscripted into another.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “How’s your French?”

“I’d say it’s passable.” She paused. “But then, so are my Latin, Greek, German and Italian. And, yes, of course I know about the war. Even tried to tell a few people but no one believed me…”

“You really are Cassandra, aren’t you?” He reined in, bringing the bay gelding to a halt.

She looked at him strangely. “Of course. Who did you think I was?”

He shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes. “Well, I wasn’t exactly sure.”

She cocked her head to one side. “The bigger question for me is who you are?”

“There’s no short answer to that.”

“How about the long version, then?”

“Later,” he murmured, neatly sidestepping her attempt to divert the conversation. “Back to the question of where we live… Remember, Montreal is our home. I’m in lumber. And we have two children, Apollo and Diana. That should be easy enough for you to remember.”

“Why not Betty and Joe?” she asked bitterly. I’ve spent three thousand years trying to forget Apollo.”

“Hush!” He rounded on her, gray eyes sparking with anger. “How in the nine hells do you think I figured out that I needed to stop for you last night? It was the gods. Whether you like it or no, they’re still watching out for you. Best say a prayer. Quick.”

And she did, biting off a few hairs and tossing them back over her right shoulder as she muttered her expiations. It’s not possible, she told herself. Apollo probably hasn’t thought about me even once since he ruined my life. Startled by the sound of horses’ hooves, she turned in her saddle. “Cameron. Look there.” She pointed at the unmistakable sheriff’s posse bearing down on them. “Guess Gretch decided to put up a fight. I mean who else does he have to make money for him?”

“We’ll wait and speak with them.” Cameron seemed wary. It was almost as if he was expecting the worst. “We can’t run. It’d look bad. Besides, there’s no place to hide out here. Let me answer their questions. No one will believe you.”

“Mr. Tracy?” The man with the badge had pulled up next to them. The rest of the posse, Gretch amongst them, hung back, waiting expectantly.

“Yes, that would be me. What can I do for you?”

“This man,” he pointed back at Gretch, “has lodged a complaint against you. Says you stole his wife.” The sheriff stared intently at Cassandra. Remembering what passed for manners in this country; she demurely dropped her eyes and dredged up a blush.

“Seems he’s got that backwards.” Cameron spoke gently. “Louisa, here, is my wife. She gets confused sometimes and wanders off. You should see the bruises that monster inflicted on her. And, he kept her chained up like a dog.

She told me all about it last night. Show them, love.” She dutifully rolled up her sleeves, wondering how Cameron could have known about the iron chain. Discolored, broken skin circled both her wrists, ugly and blotchy in the bright sunlight.

“Hmmmm…guess you couldn’t very well have done that,” the sheriff said to Cameron, eying the greenish flesh of her half-healed injuries. “Those have been there for awhile.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Gretch. “Did you inflict those wounds on this woman?”

“I have no idea how she come by ‘em,” Gretch snarled. “She always was a clumsy wench.”

Nodding to himself, the sheriff turned back to Cameron and Cassandra. “Where the two of you headed?”

“Canada.” Cassandra spoke without thinking.

“You’re Canadian?”

“Actually, we’re both from Massachusetts.” Cameron cut in quickly. “But we chose to settle in Montreal. I have a lumber business there. Lots of building going on, so it seemed like a logical choice.” He smiled at the sheriff. “Do you suppose we might go, sir? There are many miles betwixt us and home.”

The sheriff swiveled in his saddle, looking right at Cassandra. “Whose wife are you?” he demanded.

Can I force a lie to cross my lips? Do I tell him the truth—that I am no man’s wife—and have him jail me for harlotry? Does it even matter if he won’t believe anything I say? Help me, Apollo, she prayed in desperation. “It’s been so long. Please, please lift that damned spell. You are a beautiful god. And, once I loved you so…

She took a deep, measured breath. “I would be his, sir,” she replied, pointing at Cameron. “That animal Gretch used me sorely. I was neither his slave, nor his wife, yet he beat me and starved me. He is the one you should arrest.” And then she held her breath. Would he believe her? Or was she on her way back to iron manacles, the whip, half-rotten food, Gretch’s stink and his twisted lust?

Cameron reached out, laying a hand over hers; and she leaned into him as their mounts stood side-by-side. Both of them watched the sheriff as he mulled over what to do. After what felt like an interminable time, he said,

“Feels to me like the two of you fit together. Mrs. Tracy, you’re too much of a lady for the likes of Gretch Smythe. Travel safely.”

“You’re not a’goin’ to let ‘em go?” Gretch’s aggrieved tone filled the air.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” the sheriff replied, turning his horse so that he could face Gretch. “And, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll ride out of here and back to that wagon of yours. When you get there, you’ll clear out of my territory. Lying to a peace officer is worth thirty days in jail.” Gretch’s eyes widened in shock. Hauling his horse’s head around so sharply that the mare whinnied in pain, he dug his heels into her side and was gone.

“Sorry for the trouble, folks.” The sheriff tipped his hat to them. Gesturing to his five-man posse, they began trotting slowly back along the thickly-wooded track.

“I need to get down,” she murmured once they were alone again. “Apollo heard me, and I must have my feet on the earth to thank him properly.”

“What did you ask for?”

“I begged him to lift the curse and let the sheriff believe me… So I wouldn’t have to go back to Gretch. I’m almost afraid to trust it, but this is the first time since the God of Prophecy’s malediction that anyone’s believed what I’ve told them.” One corner of her mouth twitched upwards. “I even managed to tell half a lie without choking on the words.” Slipping down from her horse, she tossed the reins to Cameron, wondering if her other gifts had disappeared along with her curse. If the curse had truly been lifted that is. Oh please, please let it be gone… The half-taste of freedom was so heady she could barely contain her anticipation.

Just then, a crow fluttered down, landing on her shoulder. “Little one?” she murmured hopefully.

“Sister,” the bird croaked.

Relief swept through her. Thank the Goddess. I can still understand him.

“The shining one would have you know that you are released. He says he’d have done so long ago, had you but asked.” The crow quorked his message, with a lyrical chirrup at the end.

It couldn’t have been that simple, she thought. Or could it? Ach, what a stubborn fool I’ve been to not see the truth right under my nose. “Blessings, little one,” she said to the crow. “Tell your shining one ‘thank you’ from me.” Reaching up, Cassandra stroked the soft places just behind the crow’s head. He cawed again and ruffled his feathers, leaning into her gentle hand, before taking wing.

Turning to Cameron, she asked, “Have you a knife or scissors?”

He nodded. Dismounting from the bay, he pulled a short dagger out of its scabbard and handed it to her.

“My thanks,” she said, as she laid it in the middle of a small clearing between two sycamore trees. Squatting, she began gathering bits of bark, twigs and leaves into a pile. When she had enough to get a fire started she stood, stepped out of her clothes and pulled the pins from her hair. Naked, her hair swirling round her like a living flame, she raised her hands to the skies in supplication. And, as a prayer she’d not given voice to since she left Troy flowed from her lips in ancient Greek, tears came with it, streaming hot and bitter down her face. With the tears came visions of her long, wasted years, tripping over one another like unwelcome guests called to bear witness. Snuffling, she hunkered down, calling on her magic to light the fire. Once it was blazing skywards, she picked up the dagger and sawed off several locks of her hair, feeding them to the flames as she continued to pay homage, humbly thanking Apollo for hearing her plea.

And then Cameron was there next to her, naked as well, crouched low beside the flames as he joined his voice to hers. She could see Druidic symbols tattooed into his skin, mingling with the fine, white lines of hundreds of scars. “Apollo did send you to me. He must have. There’s no other way you could have found me.” She was crying again. “Somehow, through all these years, the old gods—our gods—still live.” Exultation swept through her, potent as strong wine.

“I’ve never doubted it.” Cameron stood, pulling her to her feet so that he could fold her into his arms. Lips buried in her hair, he whispered, “Join your life with mine, Cassandra. I do not fully understand yet, but this seems to have been foretold.”

“Yes,” she replied simply, breathing in the scent of him. “’Twould be heresy not to since the gods led you to me.” Tracing a few of his scars with her fingertips, she wondered about the wounds and how it was that a Celt could understand the Greek prayers. ‘Tis a tale best left for another day. After all, he and I shall have infinite days together. For now, she leaned in against him and together they watched as the flames of their fire kissed the afternoon sky.

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