Scent of a Witch

Chapter 1

Feel?

She stopped walking. Someone bumped into her from behind. Other pedestrians jostled her as they adjusted the flow of traffic to move around her suddenly still form.

She closed her eyes… To her dismay the flowery musk had disappeared. But the feeling was there. Eyes open, she looked left. A small alley that ran parallel along two historic brick buildings would be her route. Without giving it any further thought, she allowed her feet to surge forward.

At the end of the alley she stopped, closed her eyes and tried to find the trail again, or the scent at least. But nothing came except the burn of her feet and a pinched toe.

Her head dropped as she inspected the tan wedge heels she’d chosen to wear while she took in the sights. Her granny’s husky laugh echoed in her mind’s ear. Maeve smiled, and then frowned. It was Granny Cordy’s death that spawned this crazy, cursed journey. A tear escaped and she was glad she still used waterproof mascara.

“Granny, why did you have to leave me? I’m all alone…everything will end with me.” Maeve spoke to the breeze as her thumb stroked the blue cameo pendant. Once again, a husky impatient sigh invaded her mind…and she couldn’t tell if it was a memory or something more. Then a painful nip came from her foot and it seemed as if every blister she had screamed for relief. The distinct fragrance of healthy water tickled her senses and she limped toward it. A cold fountain would be perfect to dip her feet into to ease the pain until she got back to grandparents’ house. Her house now that they were gone.

She’d just lived in stiletto boots for a whole season in Paris…why were wedges presenting such a problem? The normal local summer attire of flip-flops so ragged that the padding was black would never be an option for her. So what else was there?

Abruptly, Maeve stopped again as she found herself on the threshold of a small forest. It was not an unexpected site in the middle of a metropolitan area, at least not in the south. Historic cities like Franklin were always balanced with strong areas of vegetation adding to the reminder of plantation living and pre-Civil War culture.

Before her, low-lying evergreens refused to turn the autumnal shades of red, gold, and brown displayed by the deciduous trees towering above her. The scent of summer days fanned out in front of her like a mystical wood hidden in a city. The promise of cold, crisp water beckoned her to enter. That was enough to prompt action and, seeing the blanket of soft grass, she slipped her torturous shoes off and headed in search of the water she knew was there.

A short hike and a tangle in some briars later, Maeve found a cross between a creek and a small river. Her Patty would have called it a crick from his southern influence, or a loch from his Scottish ancestry. The familiar lonely ache found her once again but, before it could consume her, she pushed it down. Muddy brown and not exactly clean, the water wasn’t a chlorinated fountain like she had hoped, but it promised to be cold and the lack of an offensive stench proved it was probably just dirt coloring the water.

A dry grassy spot near the edge looked promising. She hiked her long white skirt up to her thighs and sat down, stretching her legs and feet out into the murky water. An inaudible sigh of relief formed on her lips. The tension of the day released from her shoulders and she put her arms back, then winced as the prick of razor-sharp blades assaulted her skin. She bit her lips to suppress the urge to groan, unwilling to disturb the tranquility of the small paradise.

The tangle in the briar patch left small scratches going up her forearms. After releasing the burgundy cotton shawl tied around her waist, she bit the material, forcing a tear, and then ripped it the rest of the way. As she dipped it in the water, she spoke an enchantment and then patted her cuts with the dampened cloth. Even though she was a trained healer and a witch, she couldn’t take away the pain. As the water ran over each scratch, it felt like the sting of sharp blades across her skin. That was the way of it though. Sometimes the healing hurt more than the injury itself.

There was no chance of infection or scarring, but the exposed blood of a Scent Witch was like a neon sign for trackers…and with the death of her granny, Maeve was the last one. Those in the world of craft and sorcery valued a Scent Witch highly. Every creature of supernatural or magical origin held a special smell, enabling the witch to discern what their powers were and to even track them if needed. After checking to make sure each cut was sealed and she could no longer smell her own blood, she wiggled her toes and exhaled with relief. The sun moved closer to its western destination, but Maeve still had time before the errands of the night called her.

With those thoughts came the buried feelings of loneliness and despair that had engulfed her very soul. Just the week before, she had been studying in London, deep in the catacombs beneath old buildings, where she carried out the duties of a magical archaeologist. Then the message had arrived. Granny was dead. The last member of the da Paer line of Scent Witches had died. At least as far as the world of Witchery and Craft knew.

The non Gaelic pronunciation of Cordelia’s name was Power, and it was by that name she had gone for as long as Maeve could remember. Maeve Power was Cordelia Power’s only heir, the child her only daughter had borne. But her daughter having died in childbirth, the care of the nonmagical child had been left to Cordelia.

Only it was all a lie…a precaution, a protection, one her grandfather Patty had created, himself a powerful warlock of the Sweeney clan, the last of his line as well. Because of his magic, no one in the world of magic would know that it was truly Maeve who was the last of both lines, two of the most powerful and oldest lines in the world of sorcery. That was something she intended to correct tonight . . . on All Hallows Eve.