He was about to admit that he had a slight curiosity about the topic when something on the wall was suddenly hara.s.sing his attention. Some pictures hung there, mostly photographs but one was a portrait that seemed as old as those at the hotel. Fanshawe's eyes seemed to bloom at the image within the old carved frame. It was a clean-shaven, stark-eyed man in a Colonial hat. The man looked sullen and unexpectant, and had an overly large jaw.

Fanshawe pulled his hand out of Let.i.tia's, jumped up, and strode to the painting. "Hey, this is Callister Rood, isn't it?"

"Yeah, and why on earth would you..." Was she somehow fatigued by his sudden separation from her hand during the reading? "Oh, you must be staying at the Wraxall Inn."

"That's right. I saw the painting of Rood over there. Abbie and Mr. Wraxall claim he was a warlock who worked for Jacob Wraxall."

Her eyes grew enthused. "So you are a student of the occult. But since when?"

"Since, well, a few days ago, I guess, but I wouldn't call myself a student. It's just kind of interesting to me."

"Hmm. Well. Callister Rood was a fledgling, not a genuine warlock. And it was more than merely the occult they were interested in. It was deviltry."

Deviltry. "I remember that word on Wraxall's grave. It was one of the crimes he was charged with, right?"

"And found very guilty of, yes. The premeditated solicitation of the devil, to incur favor by making oblation, homage, and sacrifice to Lucifer, which, when practiced with faith, results in future actions in which the devil personally a.s.sists. This was what Wraxall, and in a sense, Rood as well, were up to. But Wraxall was the true sorcerer. Rood was his underling, and the muscle for Wraxall's dirty-work." Let.i.tia popped her brows. "There was a lot of dirty work, trust me."

Confused, Fanshawe looked back at Rood's likeness in murky oil paint. "But why is his picture hanging on your wall?"

Now that the palm-reading session was in stasis, Let.i.tia slouched back on the couch. Fanshawe remained standing when she began, "I don't know how much of the story you got from the Baxters, but back then no one in town would've suspected Wraxall of having anything to do with the devil worship-"

Fanshawe remembered the explanation. "Because everybody loved him, right? He paid for the town's improvements and loaned money to the locals."

"Exactly. In fact, Wraxall's character was so unimpeachable that the townspeople didn't suspect him of heresy even after Evanore was executed."

"Execution by barreling," Fanshawe added.

"Yeah. Pretty groaty folks back then. But Wraxall himself built most of the town. He even built the church. He never missed a Sunday service except for a few times he was traveling abroad. Anyway, Evanore was caught red-handed with her coven, performing a conjuration, a ritual that required the use of the blood from newborn babies. So that was the end of her."

"Right," Fanshawe recalled. "But Wraxall himself wasn't suspected of any heresies until years later-"

"Four years later, to be exact. In 1675. Some witnesses saw Wraxall performing a Black Ma.s.s in the woods, and after his death, they found his diary, which spilled the awful beans about what he and Evanore had really been up to since Evanore had entered p.u.b.erty. Do you..." Let.i.tia fidgeted. "Did anyone tell who how they got the newborn babies for their blood rituals?"

All Fanshawe could say was, "Yes."

"Oh, good. I really don't get a kick out of repeating that. But anyway, Wraxall's diary-which was eventually acquired by the Baxters when their family bought the inn- implicated Rood as well. So Rood's name was big time mud just like Wraxall's. See, Rood's relatives were so ashamed by the terrible things Rood did, they had to completely dissociate themselves. So they changed their name."

Fanshawe looked intently at her.

"From Rood to Rhodes."

"Ah. Your last name."

She nodded. "Callister Rood's parents built this house. I'm one of his direct descendants." She held up her hands. "That's why his picture's on my wall. Not that I think highly of him. But I keep it there as kind of a curiosity piece for tourists who have questions."

Tourists like me, Fanshawe thought. Unbidden, though, he needed to know, "Was Rood executed too?" All too well, he remembered his visions from last night. "Or did he commit suicide?"

Let.i.tia's gaze darted to Fanshawe. "He hanged himself. I didn't think I told anyone that, including the Baxters, because I figured the inn's history was grim enough. Old Baxter wouldn't want guests finding out an apprentice warlock strung himself up on the property."

"But the Baxters didn't tell me."

"Then who did? There's no record of it. All the doc.u.ments kept by the High Sheriff and the scrivener of the court were lost in fire in 1701."

Fanshawe stalled, then lied, "Just a hunch." What could he say? Oh, I saw Rood hanging by the neck last night with the Witch-Water Looking-Gla.s.s. See, I'd taken it up to Witches Hill to peep in windows because I'm a pervert...

"Just a hunch, huh?" Her smile crossed with a disbelieving smirk.

"Makes sense for Rood to hang himself in order to avoid the *death-by-barreling that Wraxal and his daughter suffered."

"Evanore, yes, but actually, Wraxall himself didn't die by barreling-"

Fanshawe rubbed his chin. "I could've sworn Abbie or Mr. Baxter said he was executed similarly..."

Suddenly Let.i.tia slumped more on the couch. "If you really want to know about this gross stuff, I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to repeat it to Abbie or her father. I'm on good terms with them, I guess, but I don't really know them that well. They might get mad at me for not telling them everything I know. They might think I was smearing their hotel."

Fanshawe cut to the chase, still standing in front of the picture. "I promise not to repeat anything you say, to anyone."

She looked as though she barely believed him. "Wraxall died in the house. He'd been arrested once by the sheriff, put in jail, but somehow Wraxall escaped, probably with Callister Rood's help. The same night of his escape, he died in the room with the attic trapdoor."

Fanshawe gulped loudly.

"When the sheriff and his men went to re-capture Wraxall, they found him dead. His heart had been cut out."

"Ooo," Fanshawe uttered.

"After the witness reports, it was always believed that the townsfolk were so enraged over Wraxall's blasphemous deceptions that they didn't even want to wait for a trial-"

"So they took matters into their own hands?"

Let.i.tia nodded. "And sliced him open and cut out his heart."

"But you said it's always been thought that that happened."

"Um-hmm. I've already told you Wraxall left a diary-"

Fanshawe almost but not quite interrupted her to reveal that the warlock actually had two diaries, one of which he'd just found last night, but the desire to say so retreated back into him like a spring-loaded tape-measure.

"-but Callister Rood, my charming ancestor, left one too. n.o.body's seen it-"

"n.o.body but you," Fanshawe presumed.

The awkward woman touched her lip, appraising Fanshawe. "Would you like to see it?"

"I'd appreciate it very much."

Let.i.tia got up, disappeared into another room, then returned as fast. She pa.s.sed Fanshawe a small book of mottled dark-blue leather whose binding was merely a string of tanned hide tied through the folded creases of parchment, just like Wraxall's diary. He opened to a random page. Also like Wraxall's diary, most of the stanzas of scribbling were blurred by the pa.s.sage of time; however, unlike it, the diction was a lot less sophisticated than Wraxall's, indicating a lower level of education.

Last nighte-time so did I kiddnap yung Ann Clark from her beddroom, a girl known to be thick of wit and slow of mind. Uncomely, she be as wel, but that matters naught, so spake the Squire. Afore this act, I lit ye Hand of Glory on ye threshold, which werk'd so potently that nevur once did Mr. or Mrs. Clark stir from their slumbering, potent enough in the fact that I-impatiently as is oft my wont-engag'd in karnel knowlidge with Mrs. Clark, and on my honur never did she wake dispite the vigur with witch I put my seed in her. Wearupon I next comence to abscond with yung Ann through whose mouth I ty'd a smitch of flannel to hold her tongue, and lash'd her wrists. Into ye Squire's house I took her, where ye Squire stood in wait, seaming qwyte pleas'd. I rend'd ye girl in ye attick chamber and hall out her innards whilst Squire Wraxall reed especial words of intursseshuns for coming Rite of Beltane, which he dost call preeker-sory prayers.

Fanshawe realized, Rood's describing the abduction of a child or young woman, for some Satanic rite that must serve as a precursor to a more important ritual. The bald acknowledgment right there on the page made Fanshawe feel frozen in place. He flipped forward, finding that many pa.s.sages were even more illegible than Wraxall's diary. Midway, though, he deciphered this: To-daye I ask ye Squire why no longer he partake of ye pleashures of Evanore's loynes as dost he hath many tymes afore so to make ye babys for ye grist of our Master, so he spake bak to me: "Good sarvant Rood, ye evill prokreeayshun which so thralls our Benefactor is-yea-a yung man's art, and a vital man's privalige who mayest be one with Lucifer. Lo, in my long yeers, I mine own self am not anye longer so vital," and aft'r shewing a calm countenance, he so explayn'd verily that in his age he hast lost his manly vitality, and that ye seed of his loyns ist like now that uv a palsy'd man, no longer able to act as once it wuz.

Fanshawe glanced to Let.i.tia. "So Wraxall was impotent?"

"Toward the end of his life, yes. From what I gather, the last three or four babies Evanore gave birth to weren't Wraxall's; he was simply too old-started shooting blanks, couldn't swing the bat anymore, you know?"

"What a way with words you have," Fanshawe had to laugh but then reminded himself that incest and having babies for occult purposes weren't laughing matters. He also reminded himself of another of last night's images: Rood was having s.e.x with Evanore... He read on: "How then, Squire," I replie to this, "wilt we bring to us ye infants so desir'd to oblayte our Dark Mastur?" and he sayest unto me, "Loyal and virile Rood, from thence forth it shall be your seed which will make my wretched and luvely dawther great with chyld!"

Fanshawe shot another inquiring glance to the palm-reader. "And after Wraxall realized he'd become impotent-"

She finished the obvious. "It was my ill.u.s.trious ancestor who stepped up to pinch-hit for Wraxall."

"That's a pretty earthy way of putting it."

She chuckled. "That was some pretty earthy stuff they were doing."

Fanshawe's brows jiggled. He kept reading the pa.s.sage. Lerning this, I felt no little joye in mine hart, and stirr'd about my groin, for such consorte wyth Evanore I hath long dreem'd, but then I feel lowlie in profiting by my Squire's loss, so I speek unto him wurds of lamentation that his oncetime pleshures will be no more, and I say that his grater age having leeving him no longer able to sire infints doth make me sad to my marrowe. But then my mentor's eyes come alighte, and I see no aspect of sadniss of his ownself, and he say, "Mere age, goodly sarvant, is no diffurent than tyme and s.p.a.ce in that it maye be ply'd like clay or sculpt'd like woode! In wurds akin, age, then, *tis as chayngeable as thy cloak! As thy trousers, I say! But heed me in thiss, fine Rood, sutch chaynges be constrewed onlie when thy sarvants of our Dark Lord shew fayth mighty enough and-yea!-a hart black enough, for such arre ye admixtures of ye very thing! Forsooth, Rood, I shalt be vital again, for our Benefactor whisspers to me in ye manner of dreems of portent, and he sheweth that if so ever one's fayth remane as stronge, then he shalt be bestow'd the knowledge which maye make away wyth the very prospect of deth itself!"

Fanshawe was amused by the last segment. "So the old warlock thought he would live forever, huh?"

"All warlocks thought that," she said. "Same way as all condemned witches cast curses."

Hard as the handwriting was to read, Fanshawe flipped through more of the scribbling.

Grayte Satan! Ye first chyld borne of my seed thrugh Evanore came this morn! My Squire very qwikly went up with it to ye attick to drayne its blud...

Another: Mine eyes did not lyke the waye Prudence Cattel didst look at me to-daye at Market Square. Thencesoever, with the Squire's permisshin, I did saye ye Hex-wurds on payge five hundred five of ye Remigius writings and didst putt upon thiss woman ye burdin of nawseeating dreems and grate paynes at her womanly regions. In the even-time late I did heer her screeming from her beddroom window, and this didst make me very glad...

Another: Hath just reterned from ye Oldys cabin ware I bound and silenc'd and came away with their onlie son, a boye of ten and two yeers. Of his parents, I lash them to-gether and bury them-stille living-deep in ye woode, and of the boye, I so forc'd him to watche my burying of them, for it onlie magnify'd the horrour of ye deed which is mutch lik'd by Lucifer. So pore were ye Oldys, none will suspeckt mischief but instead beleeve them to have depart'd for elseware in hope of better harvest-time.

"Some wicked stuff here!" Fanshawe exclaimed.

"Yeah. Wicked. In this day and age, Callister Rood would rank high on the list of psycho-s.e.xual serial-killers."

In spite of his repulsion, Fanshawe kept hunting for legible entries.

Mine hart is made to sing by ye Squire's aspect to-daye. Ye most reecint letter from Squire Septimuss Willsun in Angle-land leeve my mentor overcome with joobilayshun, being that we wilst soon be in possession of a Brydle- Bridle? Fanshawe thought abruptly, but before he could ask Let.i.tia what the bridle was, she came over and pointed to a particular entry. "There. What do you make of that?"

Fanshawe squinted. I must be firm by ye inwardness of what ye Squire say for me to do in ye ende.

"Hmm," he uttered.

"Yeah, kind of makes you think. Like maybe it wasn't the townspeople who killed Wraxall at all, but Rood himself."

"Under Wraxall's orders." Next, his eyes caught a familiar reference. After we erlier boilt ye bones of ye womin from fifty yeers agone known as ye Fenstanton Witch, ye Squire fashion'd a look'g-gla.s.s and after midnighte's peal, we peer through it and see ye land in ye witch's time. Ye Squire's suksess leeve me neerly in a swound yet ye Squire himself chukle and speek that this is a trifle when in compar'd to what he has in his mynd for future gla.s.s he endevers to make.

"What I was leaning to earlier," Let.i.tia said, "turn to the last page with writing on it. It sort of clarifies things."

Fanshawe did what she said, and here were the final lines written by Callister Rood: I needs must admitt that my spiritt grows disorder'd bye feare in contemplayshuns yet to come, and ye Squire espies this as plain. He sayeth then, in a mannur most comfitt'd, "be disheartened not, frend Rood, for all which we worke for is now in playce, save for my final behest unto thee. Ye tyme be neerly beside us, and thee hath learnt well! Yet the corpulent High Sheriff and his bird-witted a.s.sizers be already suspecting of us. Best, then, that you giveth them not the satisfaction to do away with thee in their manner but instead cause thyself to cease to be, whilest thou knoweth what must be done upon me...

Fanshawe thought he understood. "I'd say this definitely clarifies that Rood killed Wraxall. Wraxall was instructing Rood to commit suicide once the sheriff and his deputies came for them."

Let.i.tia nodded. "But isn't the end of the sentence curious?"

"Yes. That something relevant might be required of Rood," Fanshawe figured.

Let.i.tia nodded. "At least that's how it strikes me. Rood killed Wraxall before he killed himself, and cut out his heart."

Fanshawe hesitated. "What happened...to the heart?"

"Well, no one knows that, of course, but hearts were used in sorcery all the time, especially the hearts of necromancers."

Fanshawe hadn't thought of that. More occult ritualism, I guess. Didn't the Aztecs cut out people's hearts as an offering to their G.o.ds? To solicit favor and immortality? He knew he remembered something like that from history cla.s.ses decades ago.

But it was the pa.s.sage just before the last one he'd read that most piqued Fanshawe's interest. He was talking specifically about- "What do you know about witch-water looking-gla.s.ses?" he asked.

Her expression was one of surprise. "Wow, you've really got the bug, haven't you?"

Suddenly he felt self-conscious. The Baxters' looking-gla.s.s was still in his jacket pocket. Jesus, if she's really psychic, does she know I've got it? "Don't know why," he said, "but I'm finding all this witchcraft stuff pretty fascinating. I saw the looking-gla.s.s over at the inn, and they told me a little bit about it. Did Wraxall really believe that the water from boiled bones could be magical?"

"He not only believed it, he and Rood claimed many times that it was magical. Witch-water was fairly common in the fifteen and sixteen hundreds in Europe. Sorcerers would boil the bones of dead witches, warlocks, criminals, whatever, and the water would be used in ritualism, sort of like the ant.i.thesis of holy water. Supposedly Wraxall learned how to make the looking-gla.s.ses from other warlocks and ancient reference books called grimoires. In a looking-gla.s.s, witch-water was said to provide a view through the dead person's eyes and in the era of that person's life. The gla.s.s at the inn supposedly contains witch-water from the bones of Evanore Wraxall. We all tried it but-no surprise-it didn't work."

Fanshawe's silence at the comment caused an awkward pause.

"This is really odd, though-coincidental, I mean."

"What?" he asked.

"Last week some guy came in here and was asking about witch-water, too."

"Eldred Karswell," Fanshawe uttered. "That was his name, right?"

"He never said his name. Older guy, though, and nice enough, I guess. He paid well but he smoked the worst cigars."

Fanshawe nodded. "Definitely Karswell."

"So I take it you know him?"

"No, but-" Fanshawe deliberated over her exact words. Know him or KNEW him? "Didn't you know that he was dead?"

Let.i.tia's face seemed to broaden in shock. "What?"

"His body was found two days ago, on one of the trails at Witches Hill."

"The guy they found there was him? Holy s.h.i.t. As of today, the paper didn't give his name. I a.s.sumed it was just a transient or someone like that."

"No, it was Karswell, the same man who spoke to you," Fanshawe felt certain, "and he was no transient-he was rich." Some psychic, he thought. Karswell was sitting right in front of her, but she didn't predict his death. "Did you tell his fortune?"

"No, he just wanted to ask me stuff about Wraxall, said he was willing to pay for the information, which now that I think of it was kind of bizarre. He seemed to know a lot about the occult."