Bloodline: A Witch Cat Mystery Book One

  Bloodline

  Witch Cat Mystery Book One

  Vicki Vass

  Bloodline: Witch Cat Mystery Book One

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents and dialog are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or if real, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Vicki Vass

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For more information, to inquire bout rights to this or other works, or to purchase copies for special educational, business, or sales promotional uses please write to:

  Tedeschi Publishing

  294 S. Cedar Avenue

  Wood Dale, Il 60191

  Vickivass.com

  Published in Print and Digital formats in the United States of America.

  ISBN-13: 978-0692873311

  DEDICATION

  To Terra and Pixel

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Karen Owen for the inspiration. Thanks to Corinna Petry for her keen journalistic eye. And thanks to Michael Landon for his beautiful cover illustration.

  Salem 1692

  “Run, Terra,” Elizabeth’s screams reached me from within the barn. I could see the lanterns flickering like fireflies through the woods. “Run, run, Terra, now,” Her frantic voice followed me as I darted through the thicket. Brambles cut through me, slashing at me as I pushed my way down the hill toward the stream. I could hear the hounds barking in the distance followed by the sounds of women screaming. The sweet goldenrod snapped beneath my feet, releasing the smell of licorice. Goldenrod, I thought, goldenrod ground with lavender brings on sleep. One of many concoctions Elizabeth had taught me. I hoped Elizabeth and the others had made it away.

  My focus returned to my peril. I needed to keep moving. Holding up my skirt, I trampled through the tall grass and into the creek. The dogs wouldn’t be able to track me through the water. Another trick Elizabeth had taught me. I pushed my way downstream past the hollow avoiding the light coming from Master Johnson’s farm. I followed the stream until I reached the sea, stumbling, falling onto the large rocks that jutted out like razors along the water’s edge. The full moon gave me away, sparkling brightly onto the sea, lighting up the beach. I could hear them coming, the dogs barking, the loud angry voices. I stumbled, panting, I was so weary. How long had I been running? It seemed like forever. I followed the shoreline until I reached a cove. My feet ached within my soaked boots, cut and bleeding from the rocks and thistles. I crept into a small cave and tucked deep into its corner. Covering my mouth with both hands, I tried to settle myself, but my heart pounded loudly. Surely it would give me away.

  What had I done to cause such fury? I was only 17 years old; some would say yet a child. A child, whose childhood was bled from her, taken by a thief. That thief told the secret. Life as I knew it would now change forever.

  The Atlantic waters slashed clean and cool against the dark walls, the acid smell of salt assaulting my nostrils. I stared out into the abyss. I could see nothing but the eternity that lay beyond the waters. What had they done with Elizabeth? Her screams continued to haunt me, long after I could hear them. What would they do with me if I were found? I could hear voices in the distance, some real and some in my head. As of late, I had difficulty distinguishing betwixt the two.

  I shivered from the cold. What of the others? What of Prudence, Sarah, Constance? Children of the coven, not much older than I. Had they been taken? Elizabeth would give her life to save ours. Was it their screams echoing in the distance? I had no means to save them. I reached into my pocket and clenched the small vial she had given me. A chance for a new life, a chance to save myself.

  The voices grew nearer. I could hear their angry words; I could see the pitchforks through the flames, the bared teeth of the hounds, they were almost upon me. I drank the potion.

  The Leaf & Page

  I stood on the stoop of the Leaf & Page, trying to ward off the early morning chill. The crisp mountain air drifted down like a cloud over Asheville. Fall had rolled in seemingly overnight, bringing with it cool, damp mornings. I waited, shivering slightly. “Come on in, dear.” Mrs. Twiggs opened the back door to her tiny shop located in Biltmore Village, once home to the craftsmen and employees of the Biltmore Estate, the largest mansion in North America.

  As she stepped over the threshold, the 125-year-old oak floors creaked under her plump feet. I followed her in through the kitchen and then into the store winding my way along the display cases of crystals while she lit the incense burners scattered throughout the front room. Mrs. Twiggs was as dependable as a well-wound clock. She arrived precisely at 5 a.m. every morning to bake her scones and muffins before opening her shop of exotic teas and vintage books. She often said, “They’re not going to bake themselves now, are they?” She always made enough to share with the others and myself. Myself always mindful to place first in line. “Oh, dear, you do look hungry, we’ll fix that right away,” she said, gazing at me, her hands on her wide hips.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Twiggs,” I said. She had told me to call her Beatrice but it never felt right to me, not proper. Mrs. Twiggs, that’s what I call her.

  She scurried back into the small galley kitchen. I sat by the magnifying lamp that she used to examine her many crystals. Its warmth comforted me. From the kitchen, I could smell bacon frying. “Almost ready, dear,” Mrs. Twiggs called out to me. A few minutes later, she came out of the kitchen holding a Fiestaware plate bearing a slice of bacon and a blueberry scone. “Here you go, dear.” She placed the plate in front of me. “Eat slowly, you don’t want to upset your stomach.”

  Glancing up from the plate, I smiled and gave her a wink. I could hear the others shuffling in from the alleyway though the back door. Mrs. Twiggs greeted each one by name. I ate in silence, guarding my place carefully. As we ate, Mrs. Twiggs unpacked boxes of new arrivals, dusty books she had bought at an estate sale in Biltmore Forest, the small exclusive community that surrounded Biltmore Estate. I accompanied her the day of the sale to make sure all the prices were fair. She has a kind heart, which some people use to their advantage. She held up each book like it was a revered first edition carefully placing it in just the right spot on the sloping shelves. Like Mrs. Twiggs the shop was in need of repair. Its floor slanted following the grade of the old cobblestone streets. The plaster walls peeled in parts and the floor was scratched from years of wear.

  After finishing my meal, I watched Mrs. Twiggs prepare the store for opening. She dusted the rows of wooden bookshelves located in the front room, the middle room was devoted to crystals and healing stones and the back room held her selection of loose teas and herbal remedies. In the former dining room were several small café tables decorated with fresh-cut flowers from her garden. Upstairs two tiny bedrooms, one filled with boxes, the other a double bed now serving as a single. A cozy cottage plucked from a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel, its keeper, just as quaint and proper. Mrs. Twiggs embodied all that is good about Asheville, kindness, sincerity and grace. She turned the large kettle onto boil and began mixing her morning tea of the day. Each day featured a special brew, all secret recipes known only to her.

  “Oh, dear, look at the time,” Mrs. Twiggs said, gazing at the antique cuckoo clock, which hung over the cash register next to the photograph of her late husband, Albert. She paused briefly, staring at Albert. “Good morning dear,” she said, as though waiting fo
r him to respond. Albert Twiggs never answered her. In the ten years that I had watched her morning ritual, he never uttered a word, not that I expected a photograph to do so, but it would have been nice to hear his voice. She waddled to the front door and flipped over the open sign. All the others had left; it was up to myself and Mrs. Twiggs to greet the first customers. She greeted each with a hug and a smile. Mrs. Twiggs’ warmth and generosity endeared her to the community. The Asheville folk had accepted her as their own, not their usual policy for anyone not born here. Most Asheville-born families could recall several generations; many as far back as pre-Revolution. Mrs. Twiggs doled out scones, morning tea and lively conversation about her favorite subject, books. Before coming to Asheville, she had been a librarian at the College of William & Mary, a place dear to my heart. I had told Mrs. Twiggs my plans of attending W & M at one time but that time had passed. When her nose was not in a teacup, it was in a book. She could speak on any subject, from ancient history to Zen Buddhism. Of all the topics that interested her, Appalachian folklore was her favorite, that's what led her to the ladies of the Biltmore Society and their monthly book club, which she hosted at the Leaf & Page. The Biltmore Society was steeped in tradition and secrecy. Its origins dated back to 1895 when the Biltmore Estate was completed. Mrs. Twiggs never mentioned what occurred during the society’s gatherings; I thought it to be rude to ask since I am not a member, so I never did.

  The silver bell over the transom tinkled, breaking my thoughts. A woman I know as Mrs. Tangledwood came in, wielding her crooked walking stick along the crooked floor. She was dressed in a sensible coat not indicative of a lady of her stature. She was wont to save a penny where a penny could be saved. A longtime denizen of Asheville society and the leader of the Biltmore Society Ladies, Mrs. Tangledwood had been coming to the store as long as I have.

  Mrs. Twiggs greeted her, easing her into the leather wingback chair nestled by the fireplace. “Emma, how are you feeling today, dear?” Mrs. Twiggs spoke to the elderly woman with a concerned air.

  “Beatrice, my arthritis is acting up something fierce. I can feel winter coming in my bones.” She clenched her gnarled fingers as she peeled off her quilted coat.

  Mrs. Twiggs quickly gathered some kindling and started a fire, then said, “Let me get you a cup of tea.” She bustled off and returned from the kitchen, carrying a tea service. She placed it on the small table. Placing several leaves in a strainer, she then poured boiling water over them, releasing an aroma I recognized.

  “What is this, Beatrice?” Mrs. Tangledwood sniffed the tea.

  “Emma, it’s green tea with a bit of ginger, a touch of rosehips and willow bark. And something a little extra to take those aches and pains away, nettle leaves.”

  “What’s nettle?”

  I had used the plant myself for similar ailments. Mrs. Twiggs pulled up another chair and sat next to Mrs. Tangledwood. “It’s a plant that has tiny stiff hairs which release stinging chemicals when touched, those chemicals numb aches and pains. The Appalachian mountain folk used it to reduce inflammation.”

  Mrs. Tangledwood stared at the concoction and then back up at Mrs. Twiggs.

  “Oh, Emma, it’s quite safe.”

  Mrs. Tangledwood sipped the tea. I could see her whole body ease, not from the tea but from the assurance in Mrs. Twiggs’ voice. She had that effect on people. Her sparkling hazelnut eyes, her hair raven black without a trace of silver and her tender smile. For a woman of almost 80 years on this planet, her skin was remarkably wrinkle free and luminescent. She told me once that clean living and a purposeful life kept the gravedigger hungry. That must be true, for Mrs. Twiggs’ purpose kept her young. “One more thing, Emma.” Mrs. Twiggs reached into her daisy festooned apron pocket, retrieving a small crystal dangling from a piece of leather. “This is blue lace agate. It removes blocks from the nervous system and treats arthritic bones. I want you to wear it while you take a warm bath tonight for 15 to 20 minutes.” She placed the necklace gently over Mrs. Tangledwood’s head.

  Mrs. Tangledwood touched the stone and smiled. She opened her change purse but Mrs. Twiggs waved her off. “No, Emma, I want you to have this. You come back tomorrow and let me know how much better you feel.”

  “I appreciate it, Beatrice, you’re quite kind but I’m afraid that the report from my doctor’s visit was not good. Even all your wonderful teas and stones can’t cure what ails me. I’m afraid it’s just a matter of time,” Mrs. Tangledwood said, placing the teacup down.

  Mrs. Twiggs’ smile disappeared. She took Mrs. Tangledwood’s hand in hers. “There’s always hope, Emma. I will help you anyway I can.”

  Mrs. Tangledwood smiled. “On to more cheerful business--the annual pumpkin festival at the Biltmore. I’ve spoken to several of the ladies, and we agree this year we should have a haunted hayride through the forest.”

  “Would you like me to speak with the curator at the Biltmore to arrange it?”

  “That’s not necessary,” Mrs. Tangledwood said. “I’ve already spoken with her. They’ve agreed to allow us to use the woods for the event provided we donate the proceeds to their scholarship fund.”

  “Let me know if you need any help,” Mrs. Twiggs said as Mrs. Tangledwood stood and buttoned her coat. “Emma, wait, it arrived. Let me get that book for you.”

  Mrs. Tangledwood sat back down in the chair with a groan. Mrs. Twiggs returned with a bundle and placed it on the table. “Emma, I’m afraid this one was very expensive. More than the others. It’s quite old.”

  “Oh, Beatrice, how were you able to find it?”

  “A colleague from the university back east.”

  “Thank you, Beatrice.” Placing the bundle in her shopping bag, Mrs. Tangledwood stood again. I watched Mrs. Tangledwood shuffle out the door with a newfound energy. Mrs. Twiggs closed the door gently behind her. Throughout the day, her patrons came and went, browsing through books, sifting through teas and sharing stories with Mrs. Twiggs. From my vantage point on the window seat, the afternoon sun filtered in through the beveled glass picture window engulfing me in a prism of light. The sweet smell of afternoon raspberry zinger tea wafted in from the kitchen filling the store with a sense of serenity. It would soon be overpowered by the scent of the expensive perfume worn by the ladies of the Biltmore Society as they pushed their way through the door. The shop would become a cacophony as the Asheville aristocracy pecked away the hours discussing matters of great importance. That would be my cue to part ways for the day for I am not privy to the hen party. The company I keep is looked down upon by the ladies with turned-up noses, but not Mrs. Twiggs. She sees me for who I am and not what I appear to be.

  I thanked Mrs. Twiggs and headed out the back door, making sure not to be seen. There was a chill in the air as dusk settled in. The days and my time grew shorter as winter approached. I needed to make arrangements for a warm bed for the night.

  I made my way down Biltmore Avenue, heading uphill toward the downtown square. Outside the shops, the buskers played for the tourists. The locals sat at the outdoor taverns tied to their beloved dogs. Ashevillians love their dogs. I do not share their sentiment. They are dirty beasts with limited intelligence.

  The Blue Ridge Mountains rose up in the distance surrounding the town forming a fortress, silent, watching, waiting. I missed home, my real home, and a true New England winter. The Northeastern cold penetrates deep under your skin nipping at all your senses. Large flakes of snow drift up to the window sash. Feather beds and warm fires call. Here snow is a fleeting promise, never staying more than a day and leaving no memory of its coming. I missed the taste of salt in the air and the sound of the Atlantic dancing with the moon tides. But of all things missed, I miss my family most.

  I continued walking unnoticed through the crowds, listening to their chatter about their lives. Like many of my homeless kin, I am transparent, without substance. People see through me. Some turn their heads, not wanting to acknowledge I exist, others step out of my way. Yet there are t
hose good-hearted folks like Mrs. Twiggs, more than not. Folks who offer tender mercies. They share their supper or a warm smile.

  I arrived at my favorite haunt, the Fillmore Hotel, one of the last remnants of the Golden Age of Asheville located on the fringe of town. Scaffolds surrounded its exterior, masons working late into early evening. I love to watch the elegantly dressed people come and go. The women in their beautiful gowns, the men dressed in their finest suits, speaking of pleasantries and fine things. It had been longer than I remembered since I wore such fine clothing. The concierge, Wesley, greeted me. His slender frame adorned with navy blue vestments, brass epaulets and buttons polished to perfection, his gray hair neatly cropped and brushed back with pomade. Unlike his gray hair, his pencil thin moustache is kept black as night from the occasional dye, the only vanity he allows himself. He stands straight as a board as guests come and go. The sign of a proper concierge to be always ready, blending into the background never to be seen. With age comes tenure, allowing him certain privileges such as letting me in after hours to sit in the beautiful marble lobby to warm myself by the fire on cold nights. More of a reason to call Asheville home, people like Wesley who are always so kind and helpful. Even the well-heeled patrons of the hotel treat me kindly. Homeless? I’m not homeless. How can you be homeless when a town embraces you?

  “There you are, Miss,” Wesley greeted me. “I was hoping you’d stop by tonight. I’ll fetch you a bit of dinner.”

  “Thank you, Wesley, it is good to see you,” I replied.

  “You’ll have to eat it around back. Too many guests, and they’re already bothered by the construction. I hope you understand. I’ll meet you in a few minutes,” he said, nodding to a couple as they passed through the grand entrance.