Throughout the years the tragedy of what had happened in Salem, Massachusetts had become almost a punchline. It was a tourist trap— a destination during Halloween, a place from which soccer moms and their children posted scary selfies on social media, mocking the lives that were lost and the disaster so narrowly avoided.
Scant few people knew of the true history of those Salem Witch Trials and two of those people were seated in the Toyota sedan, cruising east along Tremont Street heading toward downtown. Both Loren and I were all too familiar with those events of the seventeenth century, because— well— we were there. We saw the aftermath, we faced down a brewing war between mysticism and humanity and we may have very well saved mankind— only nobody would ever know.
“It’s been so long.” Loren looked through her window at the passing buildings, which were no longer the glass and steel high rises of Boston, but squat, clapboard houses and three floor brick businesses, the city life having fallen far behind us, leaving the coastal village of Salem staring at us dead ahead. Thankfully it was nowhere near Halloween so we wouldn’t have to put up with the tourists and rubber-neckers, but I still felt the unsettled acid in my stomach, the sudden influx of memories that had come unfiltered and unwelcome.
“Four hundred years almost.” I watched the buildings scroll past, recognizing none of them, the town I’d once visited no longer resembled anything close to what I remembered.
“Hasn’t been quite that long for me. I’ve come by— visited family from time to time.”
“I’m surprised you’re not here more often, considering what this place represents.”
“What this place represents is precisely why I don’t come more often. It’s the coven headquarters— they built it here for a reason. As a reminder of what happened and to foster a sense of unity.”
“And you don’t share that sense of unity?”
“Not in the same way. Family unity, sure— but, like everything else, it’s turned— political. I have no desire to get bound up in the bureaucratic hierarchy of coven leadership in the twenty-first century.”
“So what have you been doing all these years? And I swear to God, if you say living your best life, I’m going to stop this car.”
“I promise you I do not have an Instagram account.”
“Glad to hear that. Nobody wants to see selfies of a six hundred year old witch, anyway.”
“I don’t know, I still think I’m a smoke show, even at my age.” She still looked out the window, though I could see the soft crease of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
“I feel like that’s a trap. No matter what I say I’m going to get myself in trouble.”
“You don’t need my help getting in trouble.”
“Ain’t that the truth— I was in plenty of it before we met. Hell, I was in plenty of it when we met.”
“You still remember that? All these years later?”
“I do.” I nodded, briskly at first, then slowing slightly. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t.”
“I hear that. It was a— messy time.”
The Salem Witch Trials had earned their place in history, a group of particularly spiteful Puritans erroneously accusing innocent women of witchcraft, sentencing several of them to death. But there had been elements of those events that the textbooks hadn’t covered— like the fact that not all of the women had been innocent— some of them had, in fact, been witches. And that the events of that year had brought the human world and the supernatural world dangerously close to war. The Caretakers had sent me in as one of their enforcers— one of the first missions I’d ever been given. Somehow, I’d managed to stop the conflict from spilling over and I’d met Loren at the same time, the two of us growing close as we worked together to settle the nerves on both sides. She’d worked hand-in-hand with her mother and other family members, talking them down off the ledge, convincing them that war would solve nothing.
Meanwhile, I’d executed the main instigators of the trials and coaxed the others down, using force more than my gentle words to convince them that while it was easy to start a war— it was far more difficult to finish it. At the end of the day, an uneasy truce had been established and Loren’s family had built up the coven in Salem as a way to honor and remember the trials— and as a not-so-subtle warning to humanity not to try and tip those scales.
The events of those days had mostly faded from human recollection, but the benefit, and the curse, of living long, lasting lives, was that the memories of those bad times carried forward in crystal clarity. There were no filtered history books, no redacted passages— just the raw nerves of recollection and the hot rage of vengeance unacquired.
As the years had passed, tensions between the Caretakers and the coven had increased and the last time I’d set foot in Salem it was to stamp down an attempted coup— a gathering of witches who had set their sights on the Caretakers themselves. The coup had been stopped and, once again, another uneasy truce had been established, but I’d been asked, in no uncertain terms, to leave Salem and not come back. And while I was far from the smartest guy in the world— I was smart enough to know— you didn’t double cross a witch.
“You still hanging in there, Gus?” I blinked, looking through the windshield, realizing that somehow, I’d subconsciously driven us right to the manor house. The gate stood open, the driveway leading toward the elaborate mansion in the distance, a circular cul de sac out front, brimming with other vehicles and well-dressed visitors milling around in the outside courtyards. I thought about the loaner Toyota Centra I was guiding down the narrow driveway in stark opposition to the various Mercedes, BMW and Porsche’s that were neatly stacked into various parking spots abutting the side courtyard. A valet stood near the rear curve of the cul de sac, just ahead of the wide staircase leading toward the manor house, dressed in a suit far more expensive than any article of clothing I even owned. I glanced down at the beige trench coat I was wearing, the sliver of a black t-shirt with a Motley Crue logo peeking out from beneath the opened buttons.
“Uh— I’d say I feel underdressed but underdressed would be an understatement.”
“Nobody is going to care how you’re dressed.”
“If you say so.”
The valet waved us over and I rounded the circular drop off area, easing the old Toyota to a stop, keeping my eyes facing frontward to avoid the dour looks and scornful scowls of the well-dressed mourners.
“May I— uhh— take your coat?” A host wearing an immaculately ironed tuxedo stood, looking at me through my opened window, the sun gleaming from the sheer oval of his bald scalp.
I opened the driver’s side door and tugged my trench coat closer to myself.
“Nah. I’m good.”
“Very well, sir.”
The well-dressed valet moved past the host, slipping through the opened door and into the car. He held his hands at a hover, just above the steering wheel, looking down toward the gas petal as if the whole experience was beneath him. He cleared his throat, finally daring to touch the vinyl covered steering wheel and accelerated, moving the Centra past the stairs and around the bend, back toward the entrance to the side parking lot.
“Loren! So good to see you!” An elderly woman peeled herself away from a tightly grouped clutch of equally elderly women and moved toward Loren, her long, dark gown floating just above the asphalt surface of the walkway. She kept both stern eyes affixed on me as she embraced Loren, holding her close, pressing cheek-to-cheek. “And you?” she leaned forward, looking at me with uncertainty in her eyes. Before we’d left, Loren had seen fit to dress for the occasion, retrieving a long, green gown from her suitcase— while I had just gone as I was, t-shirt, trench coat and coffee stained blue jeans.
“This is Gus,” Loren said, putting a hand to my back and forcing a smile on her face. “An old friend of the family.”
The woman nodded, clearly not recognizing me, which was probably for the best. While I had somewhat of a reputation among the members of the Salem coven, that reputation hadn’t spilled too deeply into many of the other regional organizations, mostly by design. The Caretakers preferred to keep their enforcers close to the vest, and for the most part, they did. Although the elderly woman I was looking at now didn’t recognize me, I had little doubt I’d eventually run into someone who did.
Loren hooked arms and led me toward the stairs, drawing me from the gathering crowd. I felt thankful for that small gesture, giving me some much-needed breathing room and lessening the chance that someone who might have a grudge against me would spot me.
“Let’s get inside,” she whispered quietly, “get this over with.”
“You read my mind.”
At the top of the stairs, a set of ornately decorated double doors were flanked by two more well-dressed men, who bowed lightly in Loren’s direction, scowling at me with hate in their eyes, allowing us passage. The manor house was a mansion in every sense of the word, the guts of the building initially erected back in the 1600s and simply added onto ever since. It was a sprawling, palatial estate with a large, three story central structure, a west wing, an east wing, several surrounding courtyards and a sprawling backyard overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. A tennis court, an outside swimming pool, and a few various guest houses dotted the back yard. It had been many years since I’d been to this property and looking at it now nearly stole the breath from my lungs.
It amazed me how such an elaborate and gorgeous piece of property, the cornerstone of one of the most powerful witches’ covens in the world, rested just beneath the noses of the Salem residents with no one the wiser. Perhaps the old saying was right— sometimes the best place to hide was in plain view.
“Loren? Is that you?”
The woman to my left turned, her gown swirling around her legs and smiled broadly, extending two slender arms. “Connor! Come see me.”
A young boy of not much more than fifteen years emerged from a doorway on the opposite side of the foyer, striding quickly before he allowed himself an embrace by her.
“It’s been too long.” Loren stepped back, her fingers clutched to both of his slender shoulders. Her smile was an upturned brilliance, a slice of golden light that still, after so many years, stole my breath.
“Grandmother didn’t think you’d actually come.” Connor’s face warmed, turning pink beneath the glare of the ornate chandelier.
“Grandmother knows a great deal,” Loren replied with one of her trademark, heart-stopping winks, “but she doesn’t know everything. As much as she’d like people to believe she does.” Loren rustled the young boy’s hair and I felt a sudden stab in my chest— the feeling that I could have witnessed this very occurrence happen between Loren and one of our own children. We’d talked about it in the early days of our marriage, some might say we even dreamed about it. But at the end of the day, it wasn’t meant to be. And so— it hadn’t been.
The brightening of the room from her smile dimmed as I thought back to those events, deep in our pasts, relics from not just a previous time, but a previous generation.
“Connor, this is Gus. Gus, this is Connor.”
I nodded, leaned forward and extended my hand, which he took graciously.
“Is he a friend?” His attention diverted to Loren.
“Friend of the family.”
“Ouch.” I pressed my hand to my chest.
“Shut up, Gus.” She kept the smile on her face and Connor watched the exchange with a strange sort of curiosity.
“I need to go grab something to eat,” he said, taking a step toward one of the myriad archways which led to other areas of the palatial estate. “Later today, can you show me the light show? You promised last time I saw you and we never—”
“I’ll show you,” Loren said gently, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I made a promise and I’ll honor that promise.”
The young man nodded again and a moment later, had exited through the archway, leaving us both alone, once again.
“The light show?”
Loren rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the corner of her mouth from gently lifting. “It’s an introductory spell. He’s a young wannabe warlock, but eager. A little too eager, sometimes.”
“He’s a warlock?” I turned to follow the direction that Connor had walked. “You don’t run into those every day. Witches, wizards, sure— but a legitimate warlock?”
“I said a wannabe warlock. You know the history by now, Gus. A true warlock gains his power by forging a deal with a demon— or a fey— or any number of other unscrupulous beings. If I have my way, that will never happen. Not to him.” She shook her head firmly, a resolve tightened in her jaw. “In truth, Connor is leaning far more toward sorcerer than warlock, but when you grow up amongst a family of witches, sometimes you gravitate toward a term because you don’t know any better.”
“Well, to be fair, you have plenty of actual warlocks in your family.”
“You feel the need to throw that in my face every time we see each other, don’t you?”
There was a resonate hardness to her tone that took me by surprise. “Didn’t realize that was such a sore subject.”
“I’ve spent the last— too many years— trying to forget the sins of my past, Gus. Not just mine, but my family’s. I would have thought you, of all people, would understand and appreciate that and not make light of it.” She strode forward, leaving me behind, my mouth agape. Her swift, angry response had legitimately staggered me and I realized, not for the first time, just how much space in my mind Loren still occupied. I liked to tell myself I’d moved on— years ago— but all it had taken was a single visit, out of the blue, and suddenly I had tumbled back into that previous life, twisted up with those previous emotions.
Shit like this was precisely why I worked so hard to avoid these damned relationships in the first place. I expelled a frustrated breath of air and strode forward, attempting to follow in the woman’s wake.