West Salem

By Cherie De Sues

After an emergency call, Detective Daniel Ryker arrives in West Salem to investigate a brutal homicide. Priestess Sorcha Terrabella claims a witch-hunter is killing pagans as fear rules Samhain in the village. Daniel is spellbound when he realizes Sorcha's the woman who's been starring in his recent erotic dreams.

Daniel stays cool when he faces ghosts and faeries to save a missing young witch but Sorcha must convince Daniel that the evil lurking is part of a larger plan. A plan that could destroy many.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cherie De Sues
• Release date: Sep 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301018048

Cherie De Sues

Chérie De Sues is a "critically acclaimed", "award winning" and "best selling" author of thrillers, paranormal and contemporary suspense romances. A member of Romance Writers of America (RWA), and RWA participant in both the RITA and Prism Awards. Chérie also writes under the pen name of Rose Embyrs for pagan non fiction books which have been in the top 20 bestselling books at Amazon. When Chérie takes a break from writing novels, you can find her at romance conventions, book signings, online, or traveling to research her next novel. She shares her beach cottage on Galveston Island, with her Irish terrier, Reilly.

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WEST SALEM PUBLISHING HISTORY

Mass-market Black Cat Press published 2010

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2012 by Chérie De Sues

Cover art copyright © 2012 by Scott Wilson

Smashwords Edition

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

DEDICATION

No one is more supportive than my son, Scott.

I dedicate West Salem to you in fond

memories of our trips to Salem, Massachusetts

to visit family and friends.

To my Irish terrier, Reilly, who walks me

every day and lies at my feet as I write.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

UZI

Walther

Glock

Harley

Chapter One

The flame of two white candles on the altar of Isis danced away from a rush of cold wind. Sorcha turned toward the open window, as an empty soda can roll off the countertop and hit the wooden floor. Impatiently, she brushed her hair out of her eyes, then slid the window shut that faced the sea.

Outside, the swollen black clouds blocked any hope of watching the sunset. Instead, she gazed at the fierce wind forming white caps on the roiling Pacific Ocean. With a resigned sigh, she rubbed the gooseflesh rising on her bare arms. The weather seemed to mimic her foul mood today.

Turbulent and gray.

Sorcha turned away from the window to close up the store for the night. The wind was stronger than only an hour ago, bringing the forecasted storm right on schedule.

She picked up the empty soda can and pitched it into a recycling bin in the corner. The customer who'd left the can must have missed her recycling signs on every wall. Sorcha shook her head. That kind of behavior used to be her biggest pet peeve, Gaia didn't have unlimited resources.

How naïve to think recycling would be her biggest challenge living at West Salem.

Sorcha yawned and stretched from a lack of sleep. The nap she'd hoped to catch at lunch was nixed when Lilith went home early feeling ill. That'd left her alone to handle the customers, and closing up.

The damn nightmares . . . dreams.

She smiled and licked her lips. Of course, she didn't mind the raw sensual pleasures with the same handsome and virile man she'd been enjoying for weeks. A flush of heat raced across her body as a delicious reminder of the early morning romp with her mystery lover. Their shared sex was passionate on a hand-carved oak bed she'd never seen before.

If only her sated bliss hadn't morphed into a terrifying nightmare again. Once the man showed her the silver pentacle, the dream changed night after night. This morning, the ceiling and walls revealed blood that dripped like rain.

Sorcha swallowed hard and put a hand on her churning stomach.

Her silent scream and pounding heart had left her breathless and frightened. The bad dreams were getting longer and more vivid, but she couldn't remember who'd died.

She needed to share the nightmare with the elders and other seers. Maybe this time her dreams would prove more reliable than her visions. Sorcha turned the light off in the display case of crystal balls. Why hadn't her abilities grown as the other pagans who lived and worked in West Salem?

Could she be immune to the energy of the sacred soil, once owned by the Pomo tribe? Sorcha shrugged. How could she tell the elders that the only part of the dream she remembered well, were the strong arms of an imaginative and giving lover?

She smiled. The memories of the man's scorching touch, muscular body and warm, demanding lips consumed her by day. Somehow, she had to keep the shared erotic, nocturnal lovemaking as her little secret.

Sorcha gnawed on her lower lip and switched off the overhead lighting in the shop to protect the handmade candles. With the flip of the switch, the tiny battery powered lights inside the carved pumpkins, squash and gourds glowed. The lights flickered like candles, revealing the grotesque faces she'd created earlier in the day.

If she left for circle early, she could walk by all the shops in the village that would do the same for Samhain this night. She hoped their efforts would banish malevolent spirits, and allow the dead to find their final resting place.

The cell phone inside her pocket vibrated. She frowned as she pulled it out and flipped the phone open. The screen displayed Maeve's number and the time flashed 5:16 pm. Maybe her new friend wanted to meet for an early dinner at Lady Morgana's restaurant.

Bright Blessings, Maeve.

Blessed Be, Sorcha. Is everything okay?

Maeve's senses were uncanny. Sure, I'm fine. Just a little tired. Lilith left early today and I'm closing up.

She should have stopped by to see me; I'll go check on her at the boarding house after circle.

I'm sure Lilith will appreciate your visit. Have you eaten?

I did and I'm close to stepping into a hot bath before the light fades. I need to relax my neck muscles after setting stones into that new copper wire that arrived yesterday. Static filled the phone line. Wow, I almost lost you. The bars on my phone went from five to one. I think this storm is going to be crazy. Maeve groaned. Speaking of crazy, did you see the paper today?

Sorcha squeezed her eyes closed, feeling her teeth clench. Yes, and I saw the local news broadcast at noon—it made my blood boil.

Well there’s more, sad to say. On the five o’clock news, they showed some ridiculous Halloween signs the picketers made against West Salem. Did you know we were going to sacrifice animals and drink their blood tonight? Maeve snorted. The reporter stated that Reverend Newfellow's inflammatory actions seemed out of character. I could tell by the reporter's expression and body language that he thought the picketers were wacko.

That may be too kind. I'm thinking the word dangerous fits better. Sorcha's cheeks flushed with resentment. Why make such a big deal over witches on Samhain? It's a simple harvest ceremony. She dug her nails into the flesh of her palms.

I wonder if the Rev. Newfellow is just a radical fundamentalist or under the influence of the Katse Ka? He lives in Crescent Cove.

She frowned, considering Maeve's assessment. Hard to tell, maybe both. Lady Margaret plans to go to the Crescent Cove town meeting and confront the Reverend. I told her I wanted to go.

Maeve yawned. I want to put this negative crap away for the evening. Let's have a lovely Samhain tonight. Afterwards, I hope to speak to my Great Aunt Elizabeth who died last summer.

Sorcha smiled. I have plans after circle to speak to my Great Aunt Rose; maybe we should get those two together with a mute dinner after circle.

Maeve was quiet and Sorcha checked the cell to make sure she hadn't lost the connection.

Did you have the bad dream again?

Sorcha sighed. Yes, and the dream is evolving, he's coming.

Your dream lover? Wow, this is too important to keep to yourself. You should tell the elders right away.

Sorcha rubbed her temple. I know. I planned to talk to one of the elders tonight after the ritual.

The sound of flowing water on the other end of the phone stopped.

Maeve sighed. I plan to leave for the ritual soon; I'll feel safer inside the circle.

Her friend had an edgy tone. I feel something coming, something depraved . . . sick.

Yeah, I feel that very strongly tonight. I was hoping I was wrong. I'm drinking a glass of wine to chill out. Maeve was quiet. By the Goddess, what did we get ourselves into Sorcha?

What indeed.

I thought about leaving, but the elders insist I'm part of the solution to stop the violence and depravity, festering in Crescent Cove.

Maeve didn't answer right away. Sorcha waited as her friend breathed in and out slowly.

I've never felt so vulnerable or mortal in my life.

Maeve's small voice echoed her own thoughts. Yeah, but we knew we'd be challenged. She swallowed hard. We knew some of us may be injured or . . . worse.

I know.

She frowned at the static on the phone. I'm going to lose you soon; I'll see you at circle. Blessings.

Blessed be, sister.

The conversation left Sorcha drained. She put her phone back into her pocket, then stretched out the kinks in her back and neck. Fridays were always long evenings, catering to the travelers who stopped in town. They never stayed; West Salem wasn't a place to find gas or lodgings. The visitors were only curious about their village and the resident witches, wizards and Fae.

Once the customer's curiosity was satisfied, the travelers went on their way up the coast to Eureka, or down the coast to wine country and San Francisco.

Sorcha walked wearily to the front and locked the door. Maeve was right; she should just put her feelings aside and enjoy Samhain this evening. Autumn was her favorite time of the year and Lady Morgana promised to bake her famous carrot cake.

Sorcha slipped into her sweater from the back of a chair. She pulled the drapes to the side, peering through the darkness at the tumultuous sea beyond. A portion of the full moon reflected on the windswept sand dunes.

Down the coast, massive waves pummeled a flat rock that lay half in and out of the water. She marveled at the tons of water spraying high into the air, before crashing down and starting the cycle again.

Further away on the horizon, thick storm clouds sluggishly moved toward the village. Bits of lightning flashed inside the clouds, threatening to ignite as they closed a frame around the full moon. Soon, rain and deafening thunder would pass over their heads.

She pulled her sweater closer as she gazed around the room to be certain she'd put everything away. The money and credit card receipts could stay in the cash register for now, no one in town would steal from her.

Sorcha pulled the willow-branch wand from her knotted hair and let the strands tumble freely past her waist. Her stomach growled noisily, complaining of hunger. She couldn't remember her last meal. She turned and walked to the back of the store, then climbed the steps to her apartment.

Thor, it's time for dinner. How odd that her cat wasn't right at her feet.

On the landing, frigid air brushed icy fingers along her spine. A warning? She reached for the antique brass doorknob. On contact, a snap of static charge stung her fingers and the single bulb light in the hallway flickered.

A sudden vision, fraught with malevolence and darkness, obscured her sight. The face of a menacing figure turned from the shadows of his grisly handiwork and stared at Sorcha.

Her muscles tensed. By the Goddess, could he see her?

Please! No!

She wanted to scream, to run, but the vision ensnared her into the horrific moment like a fly in a spider's web.

In the room, a woman’s body, drenched in blood, hung limp from an unseen rope. The man shook his head as if to clear it, then turned back to his macabre task. He picked up a sword from a red-stained bedspread and wiped the blade across his dark pants.

Her stomach churned with revulsion, as he replaced the sword into a scabbard at his hip. From his pocket, he pulled out a small bottle and removed the lid. He squirted the contents on the unmoving woman's long dark hair and body.

Sorcha's hands were tight fists as the man lit a book of matches and tossed them at the feet of his captive. He turned to walk out as the flames leapt high, consuming the poor woman. He laughed maniacally and disappeared from the scene. She gagged from the pungent, coppery stench of the recent spilled blood burning in the fire.

No! Sorcha's lungs seized and her throat constricted from the heat of the flames. She coughed from the imaginary smoke, pluming from the center of someone else's bedroom. Her eyes stung with tears and she gasped from the flames that charred the flesh of another.

Thor rubbed his soft fur across her ankle with a mew of concern. The stimulation released Sorcha from the tight grip of her vision. She stared downward when Thor laid his front paws on her knee. He'd extended his claws to make tiny pinpricks, bringing her completely back into the present.

I'm here, Thor. She scratched his ear and pulled out a key from her pocket. She opened the door, feeling dread weigh heavily in her heart as she walked inside.

Sorcha turned on the light and Thor circled his dish, waiting impatiently for his homemade dinner. With a shiver, Sorcha stepped into the parlor and opened the flue of the fireplace. Striking a long match from the mantle, she lit the wadded paper wedged between the logs. The fire quickly blazed hot and bright, like something alive.

She turned away, the fire was no comfort tonight as the cold stayed deeply inside her bones. Why couldn't she shake the thought that her vision was connected to the ominous nightmares she'd had all week?

The fire roared for a moment as the flames consumed the paper, sending heat into the small parlor. Sorcha turned back to the fire and put her hands out to warm them.

She couldn't count on the accuracy of her visions. Most of the events she'd seen were far worse in the premonition than what eventually came to pass. Sorcha's warning that Lord Thomas would break his leg, thankfully was a twisted ankle. Without a doubt, her power was unreliable, yet the elders said to give her abilities time.

Sorcha pulled out a handful of dried chicken bits from a velvet pouch attached to her belt. She stooped, opened her hand, and Thor nibbled enthusiastically. His warm tongue caressed her palm, calming her nerves as she tried to capture the essence of the foreboding. When she'd agreed to live in West Salem, the elders told her that accurately reading her dreams and visions was as important as having them.

She'd just spoken to Maeve. In her mind's eye, Maeve was in no immediate danger, but then who else had long dark hair? Could the foreshadow of danger be family? Should she call her mother?

Determined, she closed her eyes, seeking the truth. Time passed, but she couldn't see her parents or older brother troubled or ill. Still, the strong urgent feeling that someone was in jeopardy wouldn't subside.

Sorcha rose and walked toward the kitchen, then flipped the light switch on. The bulb flashed on for a microsecond before popping into small pieces and cascading to the floor. With a shudder and stiffening limbs, she stood in darkness, seeing a familiar face form out of the fog in her mind.

Lady Morgana Rose.

The woman's aged face twisted in horror as fire licked up her long black hair.

Something evil was with her . . .

Sorcha reached into her pocket for the cell phone, then used the speed dial for Lady Morgana's phone number. Her hands trembled as she backed out of the kitchen to stand next to the fire. After several rings, her stomach knotted up in fear. The voicemail cheerily asked the caller to leave a message.

Lady Morgana, its Sorcha. I've had a premonition; please call me right away…I think you're in danger. Her heart pounded a desperate rhythm against her ribcage as she numbly laid the phone on the counter.

She had to find Morgana, prove to herself that she was mistaken about the horror she'd seen in the vision. Sorcha hurried to the hallway and lifted the black wool cloak off the hook by the door. Wrapped inside the faux fur-lined warmth, she turned the doorknob, grateful she didn't have another vision.

I have to go Thor, eat your dry food. Thor mewed loudly behind her as if vexed that he wouldn't receive the warm meal he'd come to expect every night.

She chewed nervously on her bottom lip and pulled the flashlight off the hall table. Sorcha pocketed the town's keys from the top drawer, then locked the door behind her as she left.

As she scrambled down the stairs, the heavy ring of brass keys rattled in her pocket. At the front door of her shop, she slipped out into the cold night and locked the door.

Storm clouds had moved closer to town, sending bright shards of lightning near the shore, electrifying the sky. A light sprinkle of rain warned of a deluge to come, as the wind howled between the buildings closest to the sea.

The foul weather came from the north, where Crescent Cove bordered West Salem a few miles away. The wind whipped around her legs and tugged at her long cloak as she dashed down the wooden sidewalk. She pulled her hood closer around her face to keep out the chill.

As she passed, each store was adorned with food and gifts on the doorstep. The dead floated as wisps of bright light, or flittering lightning bugs on a June night in the south.

She frowned when no one else from her small community was on the street. They should be moving toward the communing center. Maybe they'd already arrived at the temple, to avoid the bad weather moving toward the village.

Everyone knew her shop was the last store to close on Freya's day. Regan would prepare her tools and patiently wait for her to lead the ritual. She had to know if Morgana was truly in trouble.

The desire to hurry overwhelmed her senses and she picked up the pace. The keys were heavy in her pocket while she ran. As the keeper-of-the-keys, she'd been entrusted with complete access to all the town's homes and businesses. Fortunately, Lady Morgana's café and home were designed with a floor plan much like hers. Even in the dark, she'd find her way around.

Sorcha crossed the empty street, heading toward the door of the diner. A raven screeched a warning, seconds before sharp talons struck her head. The claws dug into her damp hood, scratching her scalp. She struck at the raven with her hand, feeling the bird's stiff chest feathers under her fingers. With no regard for its own safety, the bird hovered near her face, forcing Sorcha to back off.

Ducking and swerving, she managed to get past the raven. Again, the bird struck her head and she swiped her hand into the air. The raven pecked at her hand and she knelt with her head down hoping the bird would fly away.

The beating of the wings became more distant and she cautiously lifted her head. Her heart pounded against her rib cage as she rotated in the street, looking right, left and above to see if the raven would come back. The bird had vanished.

Her hands shook as she bent for the lost black feather, then hurried to the covered doorstep of the restaurant. She hadn't imagined the bird; no magick was at play, unless the raven had been possessed.

Sorcha flipped back her hood with concern. She hadn't seen a light upstairs in Lady Morgana's apartment when she was outside. Had Morgana gone to circle? She fumbled with the wad of keys and the flashlight. She'd learned everyone's key sleeve-color for emergencies such as this, and Morgana had a green sleeve.

Damn it. In the dark, many of the keys looked the same. Goddess, help me find the right key. Her anxious whisper was lost in a sudden gust of frigid wind from the north.

A hand reached for her through the locked door and stroked her fingers. Sorcha jumped back with a gasp, feeling a surge of adrenaline sweep through her body. She fought the panic, recognizing the energy of the spirit who'd touched her.

A young man, maybe twenty, smiled as he floated through the door and part of her right side. He turned away to continue his journey to Summerlands. She hugged herself and took deeps breaths to calm her racing heart. No need for fear from the dead tonight, the two worlds were overlapped. There would be more incidences like this until sunrise.

Forcing her hands to steady, she tried several keys until the lock opened. Inside the restaurant, she turned the lock on the door.

Lady Morgana!

A ripple of fear made her queasy as she viewed the empty tables and chairs. She raced to the back of the small diner, past tables neatly set up for the morning rush of breakfast customers. Weekends were a good steady business for her new friend. Could the elder have forgotten the time and be doing inventory? She took a quick peek in the walk-in freezer, then where the canned goods were stored.

Lady Morgana was nowhere in sight downstairs. The urge to scream threatened to choke her as she took the stairs to Morgana's apartment door.

Sorcha tapped on the door. Lady Morgana, are you home? Please, open the door, it's Sorcha. She put her ear to the door, but heard no answer or movement inside. Frustrated, she banged harder on the door. Nothing. She eyed the brass doorbell and pushed it several times, in case Morgana had taken off her hearing aid.

Open the door!

She used both hands to pound on the heavy door, feeling the rough wood chafe her knuckles. A thunderous crack and an immediate, blinding, flash of light went across the hall window. She gripped the handrail as the building shuddered in response.

One, two . . . on the count of three, a roar of thunder came from overhead. The storm was almost on top of West Salem. Sorcha pulled out the key ring, slid the other green-sleeved key in the lock, and turned.

Niceties and respectful titles be damned.

She pushed the door open. "Morgana! It's Sorcha! Answer me . . . please."

A foul spell emanated from the back of the apartment where the bedroom and bathroom were located. Something had burned. The smell was acrid, like burned fur . . . hair.

Please, Goddess. No!

The flashlight beam bounced wildly off the walls and hardwood floor in her