Season of the Witch Read online

  It was Lucia’s eyes, however, that had drawn her the most compliments from childhood onward, for they were an uncommon shade of light green. Set against a Mediterranean, olive complexion that was prone toward tanning, the combination created an illusion of sorts that made others see her eyes as lighter than they probably were.

  Her face had been given many compliments over the years, but her figure not nearly as much. Raised in a country that worshipped at the altar of The Skinny Woman, her body type had gone out of fashion long before her birth. Her breasts were ample, her hips equally so, and her buttocks well rounded. Her belly showed only a single roll of flesh while in the sitting position, but was flat when standing. In other words, she was built like a healthy, fertile woman.

  “Lucia,” she could almost hear her mother saying as though she were still alive, “mia figlia è così bella.” My daughter is so beautiful.

  Lucia Ingegärd was the perfect size for Lucia Ingegärd—a fact while growing up that most American boys hadn’t appreciated, but which she accepted and believed despite society’s insistence to the contrary. She could pin her healthy self-esteem on her family, another gift from them to treasure. The beauty culture of the United States might not have appreciated her voluptuous build, but Italy was another matter. Every summer was spent visiting her mother’s ancestral home on the outskirts of Rome for most of the season, while the remainder was enjoyed in either her father’s childhood home outside Oslo or the village in Sweden he’d spent his summers in.

  Italian men pulled no punches when it came to letting Lucia know how bellissima they found her curves. She spent her every summer feeling lovely and desirable—a sharp contrast from how she felt back in Sugar Creek.

  Despite that one trite flaw, her upbringing had been almost fairytale-like until her second year at Caltech. She had been raised by parents and grandparents who loved and adored her, just as she did them. Her seemingly endless supply of cousins, aunts and uncles visited Ohio once a year, keeping their farmhouse filled to capacity with loved ones three seasons out of four. All of her life Lucia had been enveloped in affection and family. Or at least she had until the morning she received the phone call that both changed and devastated her world forever.

  She had been working feverishly through the holidays to finish her master’s thesis and hopefully graduate from Caltech a semester early so Lucia’s family had lovingly decided to bring Christmas to her. What should have been a routine flight from Cleveland to Los Angeles turned into a nightmare from which she’d never awoken. The plane had experienced mechanical difficulties and, a mere ten minutes after takeoff, fell from the sky and crashed into a lonely, snowy field. There were no survivors.

  In the blink of an eye Lucia’s entire world had come crashing down around her. Her mom, her dad, both sets of grandparents…

  Gone.

  She’d hated the Christmas season ever since—not in a bah humbug kind of Scroogey spirit, but in an I-can’t-relive-this-pain-every-year kind of way. Anything that reminded her of all she’d lost was too overwhelming and heart-wrenching to endure. Christmastime, Ohio, and snowy winters were at the top of that list.

  There had been no bodies to bury so Lucia couldn’t bring herself to go back to Sugar Creek ever again. Thankfully the older Amish couple who’d lived one farmhouse over all her life had been thoughtful enough to pack up the keepsakes they knew she would treasure most and mail them to California.

  “I want you to keep the house, Mrs. Troyer,” Lucia had told the elderly woman by phone. Her neighbors were observant Amish, which meant they had no electricity or phones, so they’d driven their horse and buggy into Sugar Creek’s small downtown to place the call. “Mom and Dad…my grandparents…” she had choked out, “they will rest easier knowing the house you helped them build is now yours.”

  “Oh Lucia,” Mrs. Troyer had said in that gentle Dutch accent of hers, “come back to your home where you are so loved.”

  “I-I can’t. I’m so sorry,” she’d breathed out. “I hope you will forgive me.”

  “Wonderful child, there is nothing to forgive. I will accept this gift on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You must promise that should you ever change your mind and wish to return to the village, you will do so without worry, knowing this house will be yours until I take my last breath.”

  “I promise, Mrs. Troyer. Thank you so much.”

  They’d said their goodbyes, which turned out to be the last time they spoke. Already nearing their seventies, it wasn’t much of a shock when, a few Christmases later, Lucia received a handwritten letter from the Troyers’ eldest son informing her of their passing. They had taken their last breaths within mere hours of each other, staying as close together in death as they had in life. She had written their son back immediately, both to send her condolences as well as to give her blessing to the Troyers on maintaining their ownership of the farmhouse.

  The blue candle had flickered, drawing her attention back to it. Judging by the length of its wick, she realized she’d been lost in contemplation and memories for quite a while. The wick was halfway burned down by the time she’d opened the book on the desk and found the right passage. Sitting on her futon, she did as the text instructed before reciting the words she’d committed to memory.

  She picked up the blue candle with her left hand and placed her right palm over the waxed seal of the Knights Templar that had managed against all odds to survive inside the book. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she’d said the Latin verse aloud three times:

  “Obsecro Domine Deus meus in hac sacratissima nocte, vigilia cum repente ostium aperire regna inter vivos et mortuos infinita spatia temporum, missis ad finem doloris tui servo locus verus es mihi aptasti mihi.”

  Oh Lord my God I beseech Thee on this most sacred night, the eve when Thou dost open the portal between the realms of the living and the realms of the dead to the infinity of time itself, to end the suffering of thy humble servant by sending me to the true place Thou hast prepared for me.

  “Obsecro Domine Deus meus in hac sacratissima nocte, vigilia cum repente ostium aperire regna inter vivos et mortuos infinita spatia temporum, missis ad finem doloris tui servo locus verus es mihi aptasti mihi.

  “Obsecro Domine Deus meus in hac sacratissima nocte, vigilia cum repente ostium aperire regna inter vivos et mortuos infinita spatia temporum, missis ad finem doloris tui servo locus verus es mihi aptasti mihi.”

  Nothing had happened. Or so she’d thought.

  Lying on the futon, Lucia pulled a blanket up to her chin. The castle was too cold. Sighing, she waxed without nostalgia on the Halloween night she’d arrived here six weeks ago…

  Somewhat disappointed by the anticlimactic conclusion and quite a bit embarrassed she’d even tried the ritual in the first place, Lucia blew out the candle, slammed the book shut, and tapped her crimson-red nails on the desk. She turned on the lamp with a sigh and made certain the candle’s wick had been completely extinguished.

  “By the saints!” a male voice cried out in ancient Gaelic, scaring the shit out of her. She yelped as she all but jumped off the futon. The huge man fell to his knees. “’Tis a Viking sorceress sent from the verra bowels of hell tae tempt and torture us all!” And with those words spoken, the big, burly man fainted dead away.

  Lucia’s jaw dropped. She vaguely heard the footfalls of men running down a long corridor, but was too stunned to give it much thought. Had her sangria been spiked with something a little too potent?

  A dozen or so men charged inside and rushed to help whomever in hell the unconscious man was. They took one look at Lucia, gasped in unison like a damn vaudeville performance, and fell to their knees.

  “We beseech thee, Viking conjuress, tae bring us no harm!” one of the men begged. He pointed toward the lamp on her desk. “Dinna cast us tae the demons with yer witchy stick of hellfire!”

  Lucia blinked. Her jaw dropped impossibly farther.

  “What do y
e want of us?” an old man pleaded. “Please dinna open yer mouth wider. I pray ye dinna think tae use us as meat for a witchy stew.”

  Another man fainted. And then another. And another.

  “I am but skin and bones,” the old man wailed. “Eat Gabhran standing yonder if ye must, Viking sorceress, but leave me tae die in me skin!”

  At that, a giant of a man fainted. Most likely the much-touted sacrifice known as Gabhran.

  Lucia wet her parched lips, an action that caused every last man standing to join the others in the sea of fainted bodies. She decided that was just as well because it gave her some time—and quiet—to think.

  For the first time since mystery man number one had appeared, she forced the clouds from her mind and concentrated on her surroundings. Her very…

  She gulped as her eyes widened.

  Very unfamiliar surroundings.

  “What. The. Fuck.”

  Lucia’s heart raced as her gaze darted around what had once been her modest study and was now a massive room made of stone. She turned the lamp on her desk up to full light and gawked at what she hoped was a sangria-induced hallucination.

  Her home office—everything—gone! All that remained were the items she’d been touching during the ritual and anything those items had been touching in turn. Had the incantation actually worked? No way! This was too crazy!

  And yet there it was, she thought, her stomach threatening to expel its contents. A room made of stone, unconscious men who spoke ancient Gaelic and wore clothing too authentic to be the handiwork of the average costumer, a tapestry hanging above a large and totally ineffectual hearth…

  Lucia felt like doing a little fainting herself, but no mercy was forthcoming from that route. Her engineer’s mind quickly assessed the situation with the little data she had at hand. If she had—dare she say time traveled?!—then the book had sent her wayyyy back. Her heartbroken and inebriated mind had been hoping the book would take her to heaven, to her family, not to a hell in some Godforsaken stone dungeon!

  “Great!” she hysterically cried out. Her futon, her desk, and everything on and in them were still here. Her hands shook as she foraged through what little of her belongings was left. A chill coursed down the length of her spine. “What is going on?” she rasped out. “And why is the lamp still working?”

  Breathe, Lucia, she told herself, breathe and get it together.

  She knew she needed to calm down and devise a plan—preferably before those men woke up. If she’d traveled back as far into the past as she feared she had, the current status of women made her wish she’d had gender reassignment surgery before this shit had gone down. “You’re getting hysterical again!” she said hysterically. “Stop it! Stop it now!”

  Lucia stilled as a memory struck her. They had called her a Viking sorceress. They had begged her not to go all Jeffrey Dahmer on them. They…

  Her light green eyes widened as the puzzle pieces came together and she arrived at one unmistakable conclusion. Those men feared her.

  Thinking quickly, she rummaged through her Halloween decorations and accessories still splayed out on the futon. She had been getting ready to put them away until the following year and was now oh so thankful she hadn’t. Two severed heads, a small but doable crystal ball, a wand that lit up, and a pack of cigarettes with a lighter she’d thought she’d thrown out when she quit smoking…

  “If this doesn’t work I’m a dead woman,” Lucia muttered as she opened the most beautiful pack of cigarettes she’d ever seen. She planned to be smoking by the time they woke up. Wouldn’t that make her look like a dragon or something? Or maybe she was just making excuses to light up. Either way, she was smoking those damn cigarettes. It’s not like becoming a full-fledged smoker again was even an option. After she finished this pack, it was hasta la vista to the menthols.

  By the time the men started to rouse, Lucia was sitting on the desk, one leg crossed over the other, her slightly-slutty-and-not-accurately-medieval gown showing off her left thigh and ample bosom. With a lit cigarette in one hand, the thing that couldn’t decide if it was a wand or a light saber in the other, and the two severed, fake heads behind her and out of view for the time being, Lucia sat and nervously waited on them to regain consciousness. When they did, and while they helped each other to their feet, she took a long drag off the cigarette and slowly exhaled as she awaited their reaction. They didn’t disappoint her.

  “By the saints!” the old man willing to throw poor Gabhran into a sacrificial stew proclaimed. “What do ye want of us, Viking witch?”

  Lucia turned on the wand and it lit up an eerie green. The men gasped. She didn’t want them to faint again so she swallowed her nervousness and concentrated on being a convincing witch. “My name is Lucia Ingegärd,” she dramatically announced in their tongue. “I am the great and powerful…” She had to think. “Viking of Oz.”

  Viking of Oz? Really?!

  At their collective gasp she remembered they wouldn’t have a clue what a movie was, much less know which one she’d hijacked that line from.

  “I dinna ken where Oz be,” the first man who’d fainted said nervously. “Be it closer tae Oslo or Tønsberg?”

  “Oslo.”

  Why are you responding to his pitiful attempt at small talk?!

  “Now,” Lucia said, reining back in the subject at hand. Dear God, she just hoped this worked! She also prayed they were too frightened to notice they weren’t the only ones shaking like leaves in the wind. “I command you to leave this place at once lest you meet the fate of those before you.” She shook the wand, hoping it made her appear spookier.

  “Leave the castle?” the first man squeaked. “The king will declare us treasonous and have our heads put on pikes.”

  “Not on pikes!” the old man cried. “Put Gabhran’s head on a pike if ye must, great and powerful Viking of Oz, but leave mine atop me shoulders!”

  Gabhran fainted. Lucia sighed.

  Great! This was just great! If she sent them away she was basically killing them, but if they stayed here her charade would be found out eventually. She just needed them to leave until she could figure out how to do the same.

  “Death by king or death by the Viking witch,” the old man wailed. “Canna ye just kill Gabhran and let us keep our heads?”

  “Why do you keep trying to kill off Gabhran?” Lucia asked incredulously. “Perhaps he’s the only one of you I’ll let live!” She jumped off the desk and landed on her high heels. The bully-hater in her was choosing a bizarre time to rear its head, but oh well. “That is not right! That—”

  At the group’s collective scream, Lucia recalled the fake, severed heads she’d been hiding behind her. Or shielding them, that was, until she’d gotten off the desk. She quickly fumbled with them, trying for some inane reason to cover them, but all she managed to do was power up their animatronics.

  The severed heads began to float and moan. It was apparently more than the men could psychologically handle.

  “I’ll take me chances with the king!” the old man yowled. “Ye can keep Gabhran, but ye canna have the lot of us!”

  With those parting words, the old man ran away faster than an Olympic sprinter. The rest of them—save poor, unconscious Gabhran!—quickly followed suit, deserting the giant of a man passed out on the cold stone floor. Sighing, Lucia walked to the window, pushed the heavy drapery aside, stuck her head out and peered down at the men retreating on horseback.

  “Damn,” she muttered to herself, forgetting her fear for a moment, “they are quicker than they look.”

  When Gabhran finally awoke, Lucia was cautious at first, but eventually took pity on the poor, frightened giant. He may have stood to a towering height, but it quickly became clear why his so-called friends hadn’t cared what became of him. Gabhran was a stutterer—a benign and treatable condition in her world, but no doubt a sign of demonic possession or some hideous equivalent to the superstitious bumpkins inhabiting this one.

  Her smile was
kind, gentle, and somehow managed to conceal the anxiety racking her entire body. “I’m not going to harm you,” Lucia softly promised. “And I’m no more aligned with the devil than you.”

  When his wide blue eyes returned to their normal size, Lucia instantly understood Gabhran comprehended the comparison she’d just made. In essence, the retreating idiots on horseback believed both of them to be possessed for one reason and one reason only—they were different from them.

  Lucia sat up on the futon. This wasn’t the time for dwelling on yahoos past nor was it the time to give in to self-pity and hopelessness. The engineer had a job to complete. She was going back to the future and she was taking Gabhran, her trusted friend since that fateful night six weeks ago, with her.

  Chapter Two

  One Day’s Ride From Eilean Donnain

  December 19, 1265 A.D.

  “Do ye ken there be truth tae the rumors, Cain? Or will we like as naught find a Viking jarl and his daughter on the island?”

  Cainnech smiled without humor as he dismounted from his horse. He looked his most trusted and capable warrior, his younger brother, in the eye. “I canna say, Niall. ’Tis mayhap a wench commanding Eilean Donnain, yet ’tis difficult tae believe she is a conjuress.” When his brother glanced down at the snowy grass to avoid eye contact, Cainnech groaned on the inside. “Niall!” he barked. “Already twelve of my men spend their every wakin’ moment praying tae the saints tae deliver us from evil. Tell me ye dinna believe the outlandish gossip as well!”

  “Why is it so bluidy hard tae consider?”

  He didn’t have time for this. His brother, nigh unto his spitting image both physically and in smarts, had seen thirty and three years. “Mayhap ye are a wee bit old tae be fretting o’er the possibility of witches and ghosties.”