Tales From The Anonymous Divorced Witchbabe

By Nicole Chardenet

Divorced, aging Samantha Littleheart is a modern but skeptical Pagan who believes in the power of witchcraft, but without all the Hollywood special effects. She has little patience with anti-Christian bigotry and inaccurate Goddess 'herstory'. She's also tired of boring, emotionally avoidant men, and dudes with just one item on their six-inch agenda. And could life in her sleepy little ass-backwards Connecticut town get any more teeth-grindingly dull? Enter Exhibit A - an ancient medieval spell book written by an excommunicated priest supposedly dictated by a demon. (Yeah right). And Exhibit B - tall, handsome Buck Moon Coyote, a Native American 'shaman' and celebrity author with wildly out-of-control charisma.

But Buck is not what he seems, and others believe the spell book is more than just a lost museum artifact. When someone steals it and uses it to attack Samantha, Buck, and a coven sister, she realizes that magic is far more powerful than a skeptical Pagan ever dreamed. Now word's out on the Internet and every basement Satanist and Aleister Crowley wannabe wants it. Life is no longer sleepy or ass-backwards in this dark fantasy as Samantha faces not just her terrifying enemies, but what now looks like her utterly wasted life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Chardenet
• Release date: Feb 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386540533

Nicole Chardenet

Nicole Chardenet has been a practicing Pagan for 25 years. She belonged to a witches' circle in central Connecticut and now lives with Belladonna, her furry black 'peculiar', in Toronto, where she is more of a Pagan with Buddhist leanings. She has three other novels on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Tales From The Anonymous Divorced Witchbabe is her first dark fantasy novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

DATE: FRIDAY, APRIL 5, 2002

To: Gareth Dunstan

From: Samantha

Subject: Greetings from the Wiccan Witch of the East!

Hi Gareth!

I just performed a sexy nekkid love spell! I mean, the other ones are working so well . This time, at least, I felt the energy, which I haven't in awhile. Invoked Aphrodite and Adonis, cranked up a sensuous tune on the 'puter and did an erotic dance in front of the altar while drawing the 'right man' to me.

I was inspired by meeting a BNP (Big Name Pagan) tonight – Sylvia Stern. She autographed my copy of 'Rational Magic' which is the first book I bought when I was just a baby witch five years ago. She wrote on the title page, 'To Samantha, Be careful what you ask for, the Gods may grant your request!' Is she warning me not to remarry? :)

She laid out the ethics of modern magic and witchcraft, emphasizing the importance of ending every spell with, 'What's best for all, and done with free will,' to avoid having them become manipulative or, worse, backfire on you.

Unfortunately, the candle went out prematurely while I was dancing and the incense burner sputtered and shot out a few flaming sparks, one of which landed on the rug and burned a hole. Later I trimmed the burnt part but it still shows. Crapski! I don't suppose *that* was a good omen...

ANONYMOUS DIVORCED WITCHBABE

Monday, April 8, 2002

Well, so much for THAT stupid love spell, dear blog readers.

I went to a psychic fair on Saturday where I met a cute astrologer. He was so open and friendly I thought maybe he was interested. I was decked out, my friends – wearing my prettiest faux-Greek robe with some shiny gold necklaces. Makeup perfect, and having the sort of Good Hair Day I usually only get on a dateless weekend. And the wide belt that helps hide the poundage I've gained since Ex-Hubby left me. The star man was a Leo with a – I don't know, moon in the seventh house or something. Tall and lean with longish brown hair and green eyes and a brilliant smile. No wedding ring. He was friendly and I was friendly, and animated and oh-so-clever, and then he excused himself to go talk to a much prettier and younger blonde who looked like she'd been in the Craft for all of fifteen minutes and had learned everything she knew from that teen-witch writer.

Grrrrr.

Date: Tuesday, April 9, 2002

To: Samantha

From: Gareth Dunstan

Subject: Oh my God...what a mental image...

Hello luv. I didn't know who Sylvia Stern was but Hedgie did. She has all her books, and is quite impressed you got to meet her. She's never met a BNP, although she came close once when Yvonne Frost visited her coven – unfortunately, Hedgie came down with the grippe and had to stay away. Bloody shame.

I wouldn't stamp 'Failed' on your spell just yet, luv. It's only been, what, three or four days? Perhaps the star bloke already had a girlfriend. Or is gay.

Got to admit, the vision of you dancing a cheeky kitless jig before an altar lifted my spirits a bit! Even though I've never seen you, except in pictures. Puts me in mind of Britt Eklund's famous ‘spanky dance’ from 'The Wicker Man'. Which was my very first wank movie. Oh lord, I shouldn't have told you that, should I? ;) Anyway, let those fuckwits you deal with at that dodgy dating service know you dance starkers, and I promise you'll have enough suitors to fill the Albert Hall!

ANONYMOUS DIVORCED WITCHBABE

Thursday, April 11, 2002

Against my better judgment, I stopped at Nickleby's, the dating service's office today and thumbed through their profiles of single guys. As usual, not too many new ones. And again I say, so much for the love spell.

I don't know how many profiles they've got, but it sure as hell isn’t the ‘thousands’ they promised. They lied about the people they accept (anybody with enough moolah), as they clearly don't weed out the losers. Remember the one I went out with a few months ago who asked me if I smoked crack? What kind of question is that if you don't smoke it yourself? Oh yeah, they screen their people for 'quality'. They didn’t ask me any qualifying questions beyond the credit check, I could have been a psychotic heroin addict whose hobbies include castration and grand larceny, for all they cared.

The bitch who strong-armed me into joining (like the Roach Motel, you won't walk out, not without signing a contract anyway) claimed she met her fiance through this service. Lying whore. She's left the company, by the way. Big surprise.

Some dude named B. wants to meet me. He's not very impressive but I suppose I shouldn't judge people by their profile since I don't like it when guys say, 'Sorry, no chemistry,' just going by my picture alone. How much can you get to know a person through a few paragraphs, anyway? I haven't looked at anyone's video, and no guy I've talked to so far has confessed to watching my video. What did we spend on that crap, $150? All for something I could have produced at home for nothing.

So I figured wotthehell. I'm always hoping someone will discover the gem that is me, right? So I guess I ought to be open to the other undiscovered gems, even if they are working in something as boring as enterprise middleware development.

I picked out ten acceptable men and asked to meet them. Acceptable, yes – I am reduced to throwing spaghetti against the wall to see if it sticks, since asking to meet men who actually interest me gets me nothing but ignored...

THE BELLS ON THE PEWTER pentagram door ornament heralded my arrival at The Countess's Garter (Honi soit qui mal y pense as Maeve always answers the phone). A familiar scent of incense greeted me. Is that patchouli?

It's a blend, Maeve replied as she sorted bumper stickers behind the counter. "It just came in from my Indian distributor. It's called Kama Sutra Dance."

Love it, I smiled. I adored the smell of patchouli, it always conjured images of Pan and Herne the Hunter. Very masculine, very earthy, and oh-so-sexy. Just lie me down on the forest floor and do me under the oaks, Lord Pan! Looks like this week’s howtuhbeawitch101 books arrived.

Maeve clucked as she stretched on the stool, her curly red hair spilling down her back. Her huge brown eyes filled her huger bifocals. She was in her fifties, favored jangly gold charm bracelets and earrings, and was one of our Celtic Wiccans, who managed a home life in constant upheaval with quiet forthrightness. "They're not all on how to be a newbie witch, smart ass. Some of them are on Green Witchcraft, a few are about Celtic Wicca – there's a new one out by Fiona MacGregor I'm dying to read – and two or three on gems and crystals."

So what's on the schedule today?

I'd like you to mind the floor this morning. I need to shelve these books and do some inventory in back. The Open Door Buffet’s at noon, and maybe if you have time you can check over the accounts payable, make sure everything’s in order.

Accounting is just one of my many exciting talents as a depressed divorcée in a sleepy little Connecticut town with no real social life for the over-thirty crowd. Hard to imagine why I'm not more popular with the hunks. I plunked myself down on the stool as she vacated it and peered at the large stone church across the street. How's the good Rev'rund doing?

Maeve snorted as she shelved. "Still keeps his distance. Always passes down the other side of the street. But he's an Episcopalian and he’ll never bother us. Thank Goddess the Jonathon Edwards set is on the other side of town."

That's the Covenant of the Eternal Christ, featuring the sort of hellfire-and-brimstone theology favored by the famous colonial-era Puritan preacher.

She stopped shelving and turned to me with her owl eyes. So what's new with you?

Nothing much.

Nothing? I haven't talked to you since Friday. How was your weekend?

Fine.

Just fine? Any new dates?

Feh.

Nothing new at Nickleby's?

"Just some guy named Bruce who will probably be as lame as the last one."

Chin up, sweetie, someone exciting will turn up.

"Uh-huh. I did a love spell Friday night to draw the right man to me and got ignored on Saturday by a cute astrologer who preferred the company of a young buxom witchy-boo to mine. I will never find another husband in this town."

Maeve sighed and returned to her shelving task. Don't be so quick to jump back into married waters, girlfriend, she warned. I'm not convinced Roger's leaving you was the worst thing that could happen. The man was a crashing bore. You can do better.

I shrugged and said nothing. Roger walking in one afternoon and saying he wanted a divorce, and no, there wasn't another woman involved, he was just tired of being married, and then moving to Arizona before I had a chance to try and talk him out of it was still a sore point.

Whatever.

You have to keep trying, hon. Just don't give up, if it’s what you actually want. And if you really get desperate, you can borrow Al for a few days. Or weeks or months or years.

"Oh, that sounds hopeful," I smiled. Maeve snorted again. Her husband had gotten laid off from his factory job six months ago and hadn't found much work since. He’d fallen into a deep depression, and while Maeve was supportive, she still had a granddaughter to take care of and a business to run. Al resisted any attempts to help her or, more importantly, to help himself. Her face was a mask of perpetual strain.

The pentagram bells rang and I glanced up to see two Goth teenagers, one with short dyed black hair plastered to her skull and the other with natural red hair and green eyes. Both had pierced eyebrows, copiously pierced ears, and the dark-haired one's lower lip was also pierced, with a silver ball, just to be different.

"Hi, have you got the Necronomicon here?" the redhead asked.

I plastered on a smile and tried not to roll my eyeballs. It was going to be one of those mornings.

DATE: TUESDAY, APRIL 16, 2002

To: Gareth Dunstan

From: Samantha

Subject:  Dumb. As. A. Post.

Hi Gareth,

You wouldn’t BELIEVE what the guy I met for dinner tonight told me over the soup and salad.

He's killed 38 people.

Stop freaking out, he's not a serial killer. Okay, granted, given the non-existent state of Nickleby's 'screening' process it's certainly not beyond the ken, but in this case, Bruce was an Army sniper in Operation Desert Storm.

He joined the Army to pay for school (fair enough) and that means sometimes going to war and doing unpleasant things, since war is, on the average, a fairly unpleasant event, but is this something you would ordinarily divulge on the *first date*?

Later he tells me he doesn't know how to use a computer. WTF?!?! How does one live in this day and age without rudimentary computer knowledge? And the Internet?!?!

Then he asks me during the movie if I want any candy. I say no after that big Italian dinner. He buys it for me anyway, and I felt obligated to eat it.

Then he pulls his *biggest* boner yet. We decide to go to a bar after the movie and I agree to follow him...

THE PHONE RANG. Bruce Thackmeyer, read Caller ID. Time to pay the piper.

Hello?

"Samantha, what the fuck happened to you?"

I couldn't find you.

I pulled into the gas station. What did you do, just go home?

Bruce, did you happen to notice you weren’t supposed to make a left turn out of the movie theatre parking lot?

So what? The bar was in that direction.

My blood pressure jumped all over again. Bruce, why couldn't you have just turned right and then made a U-ey down the road? 

Because it was too much trouble.

"It took you five minutes to get a break in traffic – which should have been a big jump on the Clue Train that there’s a reason why the sign prohibits it – while people were stuck behind us. And of course it was only time enough for one car to turn, not two!"

It wasn't that long–

I timed it by my dashboard clock.

Was that enough reason to just ditch me like that?

I lost you.

Why didn't you call me on my cellphone?

Because I don't have one.

You could have found a pay phone.

"And I was fed up."

"Fed up with what? I thought we'd had a nice evening together. I liked your smile over dinner. You made me laugh. Then I drove around trying to find you. I thought we'd go to my favorite bar, it's nice and quiet, no loud music, and just get to know each other. That was just fucking rude of you."

You're right, it was.

Why did you do it?

I couldn't think of a gentle way to explain it. How do you tell someone he's just too lacking in basic common sense for you to want to see him again?

I don't know.

That's a really shitty reason, Samantha.

You're right, it is. Bruce, this isn’t going to work out. You're a nice guy, but – it's just not going to work out.

Why not?

It just isn't.

You can't tell me?

Is this my bloody spell at work? More of the same lame-o's? Or do I just completely suck at magic? Maybe it's all a bunch of deluded Shirley Maclaine horse crap?

I paused. Apart from his appalling lack of common sense, he hadn't been a bad date – not a great one, but I might have given him a second chance if he hadn't been such a brainless doof.

No.

He yelled something vulgar and hung up.

CHAPTER 2

ANONYMOUS DIVORCED WITCHBABE

Friday, April 19, 2002

Boy oh boy have you guys let me have it for the last couple of days. (And I do mean mostly guys!) I sure am glad I’m the Anonymous Divorced Witchbabe, because I can be totally honest about my post-divorce adventures in singledom on this blog and not mince words or censor myself because I’m totally anonymous, not a single soul knows who I am. Not my family, nor my friends, nor the terrific folks at the Covenstead, who’d be horrified and lecture me on the Law of Return (Whatever you do comes back on you) and the Wiccan Rede (If it harm none, do what thou wilt) if they knew how I'd treated Sniper Boy. Not even my best buddy who lives in another country knows about this blog.

You who got me Slashdotted in the early days are the only ones who’ve seen my entire emotional spectrum – my best, but also, young Skywalkers, my dark side.

Longtime reader Mother Annaliese gave me a sympathetic, albeit still fairly stern tongue-lashing. She said I should be happy men still want to go out with me, pointing out that a lot of women my age are beginning to go downhill looks-wise and have to settle for what they can get. I don't think I'm much of a babe, actually, despite my moniker – I don't make anyone throw up, I guess, but I don't think I've ever been beautiful. Still, she has a point, disheartened as I am by her negative picture of men. I do hope Mother Annaliese isn't suffering from low self-esteem and preparing to 'settle' herself.

Let's just say that apart from Mama A and a few others, my computer damn near melted down from the blistering flames I received, particularly from men who’ve been similarly abused by damaged women. To John D. in Tulsa, it is physically impossible to do that with a Dodge Durango, okay?

Anyway, I thought about what you injured men had to say on the subject of ungrateful self-obsessed insensitive witch bitches, and I recognized you were 110% right, and dumping Sniper Boy in the middle of a date was simply inexcusable. Not just ditching him but without an explanation either. I thought about how many guys similarly blow me off – all those assholes on Match.com who e-mail me pretty talk and then never reply after I respond, or the people who just ignore you, or the guys who say they'll call and don't, and you're wondering what you said or did wrong, and of course you'll never know.

It's an ugly vicious circle, the whole post-divorce dating scene. He's mean to her, she's mean to the next guy, he's mean to me, I'm mean to the next poor schmuck. How many people are ruined, I wonder, less by divorces and breakups but by just trying to negotiate this singles' pool of battle-scarred barracudas?

I left a message on Sniper Boy's answering machine apologizing for my behavior. I haven't heard back from him, thank Goddess.

I PARKED A FEW BLOCKS from the Garter and began walking. I was just about to cross the street in front of the Episky church when I heard someone calling.

Miss?

I turned and looked around.

Miss? Up here! I turned again to see an older woman, leaning out of the large triptych-shaped oak doors of the church and beckoning. May I speak with you for a moment?

I looked around, certain she must be speaking to someone else.

Yes, you. I'm sorry, I don't know your name. I wonder if I could have a word?

Quite surprised, and with a little trepidation, I mounted the steps.

Good morning, my name is Vera Dunlop, she said as she extended her hand. Could you please step inside?

Thoroughly mystified, I did as she asked. It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Dunlop, I said, on my best behavior. Pagans were misunderstood by many Christians and I thought it terribly important always to put one's best foot forward. My name is Samantha – Samantha Littleheart. I looked around. What a beautiful church, I commented.

Thank you. It's nice to meet you too, Samantha. I've seen you working at The Countess's Garter and I wanted to show you something – give it to you, if you'll take it.

Me?

Yes. I confess I'm still not quite sure what to make of a 'witch shop' across the street, but I've done a little reading and talked to a parishioner's niece who’s a Wiccan, and I've gotten a little more familiar with your – way of life. She seemed unwilling to call it a religion. I'm the church secretary. I wanted to talk to you while Father Downes was out. I'm not entirely sure how he'd react.

She smiled a little, thin and white-haired and looking old enough to remember Roosevelt. (Not the first one). She glanced up and down at me from behind her cat's-eye eyeglasses punctuated with three rhinestones at each corner. I got the feeling I made her a tad uncomfortable.

I found something in my attic last week. I don't know who else to turn to. I don't even really know what I've got. Or if it's evil or not. But it's quite curious, and I'm afraid to destroy it in case it has historical value.

Historical? Cool. What is it?

I followed her to a corner room with inadequate lighting, a shelf of books on theology and an old desk probably picked up secondhand from a thrift store.

Please, Ms. Littleheart, have a seat. Mrs. Dunlop gestured toward a chair near the desk.

Oh, you can call me Samantha – or Sam if you like.

She sat down on the other side and leaned forward, her spidery blue-veined hands clasped together. "I have an old trunk of my grandmother's I only just discovered, as I live in her house which I received through a fairly large inheritance when I was still a girl. I got married after the War, had three children, and was far too busy to poke around in my grandparents' attic.

A few weeks ago, I hired some young men in the neighborhood to move some of the larger items out. My husband died fifteen years ago and I'm buying a condo. I want to have a yard sale, and I found this forgotten trunk. When I opened it, I found some old clothes, my grandmother's wedding dress, a bit damaged by the years, a few other items of family importance – and, wrapped in some fabric near the bottom, a very old book.

An old book? I asked, eyebrows raised. I loved artifacts.

Yes. It frightens me a bit, with its strange alphabet and disturbing illustrations. Demons, devils. My first inclination was to destroy it. I don't want it in my house. But I don't know for certain it's a bad book, and it looks quite old, and the librarian in me wonders if it might have historical value.

Have you consulted the Beinecke people in New Haven?

The what?

You know, the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library at Yale University. They specialize in this sort of thing.

The Beinecke! You know, I’d completely forgotten about them, it’s been so long since I worked in a library. Perhaps you could take it there, if you don't want it.

Really? Holy windfall, Batman!

Yes, let me show you. She opened a drawer and pulled out a large brown book and slid it across the desk. How old was this thing? Would it crumble into dust if I touched it? I guessed it couldn't be that fragile. I pulled it close. It was large, with a hard leather cover. Four horizontal ridges, evenly spaced, decorated the spine. The title had mostly worn off. The leather was dark brown and shiny – and in fairly good condition, with a strange emblem stamped on the cover.

May I open it, Mrs. Dunlop?

Please.

Tentatively, still afraid the artifact would crumble in my hands, I lifted the cover and faced a blank page. Very carefully, I touched the edge of the upper right corner and found it firmer than I would have expected. Using a fingernail to lift it I slid my finger underneath and gently pushed it to the left, facing another blank page. With the same tactic I turned the leaf again, to the title page, with an illustration of a frightening demon – a wolf with griffin wings and a serpent's tail.

I guess this is why you find it disturbing, I smiled. Mrs. Dunlop tittered like a nervous bird.

"I'm probably just a silly old woman. I don't know much about old books, but I do know this much – that book came from medieval, or perhaps Renaissance times, and the majority of books from back then were religious in nature. This doesn't look religious at all. There are no pictures illustrating scenes or people from the Bible, just evil things. Not even well-drawn. I guess I'm a bit old-fashioned, Samantha. A superstitious old lady. But unwilling to destroy something that could be rare and valuable."

Imperium Spirituum Infernalium, the title page said. There was no author listed. Of course not; he would have gotten in serious trouble with the Church. 

What does this mean? I asked, touching the title.

Mrs. Dunlop shrugged. I never took Latin in school.

I continued turning pages. They didn't feel like paper. I tentatively rubbed one and it felt a little rough, almost hairy.

I know what this is. It's vellum, I remarked. Animal skin stretched and dried to make parchment. I continued flipping pages. This looks like German. 

She nodded. There's another language too, but I can't read it. I'm sorry I'm so helpless; I took French in school and studied abroad in Lyons when I was younger.

I squinted and bent toward the vellum. The pages were lightly lined to guide the calligrapher's lettering. The illumination was minimal. A couple of letters on each page were larger than the others and drawn with red ink. I wondered if this was the calligrapher's way of denoting paragraphs. Several pages were darkened in some places, as if by dirt. Others showed the effects of bookworms – the damage didn't appear too bad, but this book had clearly gotten around.

Look! There's the imprint of an ancient crushed bug. I half-turned the book and pushed it towards Mrs. Dunlop. She leaned forward, peering at the smudge and squinting a little.

You're right! What is that?

Not sure. A silverfish, maybe? It was a segmented body with one antenna, and a yellow halo around the tail. The insect itself was long gone, but its stain remained on the book, preserved for the ages.

A couple more page turns and I found the 'strange alphabet.'

Wow. What the hell is this? Oops, sorry, Mrs. Dunlop, I mumbled as I touched my lips.

That's all right, it’s a little – surprising. I've no idea what that language is.

It looks sort of Greek, but I don't think it is, I commented. See here, this looks like an Omega, but the other letters only look vaguely Greek. That's really weird. There were charts too, some with symbols and letters, others with numbers, and others that looked like astrological charts. One was next to a griffin, another beside a serpentine dragon.

I continued flipping, careful to touch only the top right-hand corner of each page even though I now knew this book was sturdier than any printed today. "Did I say wow? This is really impressive, Mrs. Dunlop."

And creepy. Sunny, my fellow parishioner's Wiccan niece, said perhaps you or your friend at the shop might know more.

Did you show it to Sunny?

No, she lives in Kansas. I talked to her on the phone.

I continued flipping.

Mrs. Dunlop sighed and played with her hands. Samantha, please don't be offended but – I was very worried about your shop when it opened. In my day, people who practiced witchcraft were considered the same as devil worshipers. I saw all kinds of people going in there – some were inoffensive enough, some looked a little like those hippie people who were around during the Vietnam War, and a few of them were a little – well, scary.

I looked up and smiled. We're not as scary as you think, Mrs. Dunlop. We don't hurt other people. What we call magic you might call a miracle. Our Wiccan Rede teaches us not to harm others – to consider our actions, so we reduce the chance of even accidentally harming them.

Oh, I know that now. Sunny sent me a book about it. I told her about your shop. She found your web page on the Internet, and through her research, which she's much better at than I, found some information on the group you're with.

The Barking Hamsters Coven in Barkhamsted. The Covenstead was the home of our High Priestess, Lady Amaris and her ex-biker husband Eddie.

Sunny has a lot of connections on the Internet, and she asked around, saying the feedback she got was good. Your group is well-thought-of in the Wiccan community here, and she said she got 'good energy' coming from your shop’s website, particularly the photos of you and the owner. She said the things you sold looked okay to her, nothing evil or Satanic or 'left-handed.'

I chuckled a little. The Left-Hand Path. No, we don't get into that at all. Well, except for maybe one coven sister, and she claimed she didn't do that anymore. But I didn't mention that to Mrs. Dunlop. Do you want me to take it to the Beinecke and see what they say?

If you like. Do what you please, I don't want it.

But Mrs. Dunlop! It's so old. This is an antique – it could be worth a lot of money!

It might be. I don't care. Look, I'm a well-off old lady. I come from money, and I've invested wisely over the years. I don't need more. Maybe you can find out more about it, or donate it to the Yale museum. Just get it out of here before Father Downes returns or he may well stone me!

But you don't even know me! Did you offer it to Sunny?

She didn't want it either. She says she's a Dianic – whatever that is - and that it wouldn't be of interest to her. Sunny says a lot of Wiccans have great love and respect for old books and antiques and will take good care of it. I'd rather give it to someone who will handle it responsibly than throw it away or have it fall into the wrong hands if it's evil.

You're so kind. I couldn't believe she was giving me something like this, a total stranger. I looked up from the yellowed pages. Do you know how this came into your family?

Mrs. Dunlop sighed and stared off into the distance. I don't know, she said. I can speculate. If anyone in my family was likely to possess it, it was my grandfather. He and my grandmother were from Hampshire, England and he went back during the War to attend to some business. Particularly some property he was afraid would fall into Nazi hands. He was there for several years, working and sending money back to my grandmother here in Connecticut. Supposedly, and my grandmother was never very specific about it, while he was in England he got involved with some Masons, or occultists.

I closed the book. "Are you sure you want me to take this?"

I'm quite sure, young lady. I trust you. You have a sweet face, and Sunny thinks you're a good person. If this book has any historical value, then perhaps you can find a nice home for it in a museum. And if it turns out to be evil, just burn it. She laughed, but without a smile.

I BURST INTO THE GARTER. Maeve! I shouted. You’ll never believe what someone just gave me!

Maeve? The shop was empty.

Maeve, I know you're here! I saw your car out front.

She walked in from the back room. And good morning to you too! she grinned. Now what's all the ruckus about?

I practically jumped with excitement. You won't believe this! You won't believe what I have! It's so cool! A lady at the Episky church gave it to me!

Maeve's large brown eyes appraised me. Gave you what?

Look at this! I said. "Be very careful, it's really old."

Wow.

That's what I said.

Is it Victorian?

I think it's a lot older, but I'm not sure how much. I opened to the title page. It looks like an astronomy or astrology book or something.

"Imperium Spirituum Infernalium," she read. What's it mean?

No clue. Parts of it are in German and there's a funky alphabet too.

Together we flipped the pages. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was as excited as I was. Her lined eyes scanned as a long pink fingernail traced the strange words.

Here's the weird alphabet, she said.

Hmmm. Not sure what that is.

"Oh hell, Samantha, it could be anything. There were dozens, maybe hundreds of magical alphabets during the Middle Ages. But girlfriend, this looks like a grimoire!"

You think so? Wow, a real medieval spell book! How beyond wicked cool!

That's just my guess, but I'm no authority on ancient books. We need to take this to an expert.

You mean like the Beinecke?

Absolutely. I have a friend who works there. But we can go to his house, and save a trip to New Haven. You know how difficult the parking is.

"Around Yale? Hell yeah. All those one-way streets."

Let's talk about it later, Maeve said as the pentagram jingled. Maybe you can bring it to Beltaine next week, someone there might know more about it.

ANONYMOUS DIVORCED WITCHBABE

Friday, April 26, 2002

I heard from one of my on-line dudes tonight. He’s a Match.com guy, and I guess he tried to contact me again after my membership ran out, and I hadn't yet given him my real e-mail address. I thought he'd just dropped me for no apparent reason; he stopped e-mailing me more than a week before my membership expired. He claimed he accidentally deleted my Match name. It's amazing how often that happens with men; I get that a lot. What I'm guessing is whatever hotter young thing(s) he was talking to blew him off. But hey, I gotta give him a chance, right? He could be telling the truth. And what other prospects have I got?

We'll call him Professor, as he's a teacher at a local community college. That's a nice change from the truck drivers and stock boys I usually get. He teaches computer programming and a night class on Introduction to Computers. How to turn it on, how to get your e-mail, how to not mistake your floppy drive for an ATM machine. Sounds scintillating. Too bad I'm not still dating Sniper Boy, he could sign up for the next class.

We're going out Friday night.

ANONYMOUS DIVORCED WITCHBABE

Sunday, April 28, 2002

Had my first date with Professor tonight. We met at the local diner for coffee – just a get-to-know-you thing. He's a little older-looking than his picture, but he was far enough away from the camera that it's possible the lines in his face didn't show up, rather than that he posted an old photo. Hey, he’s forty-two, and I think some wrinkles can be sexy, actually.

I may be old and cynical and too jaded to take what men say very seriously anymore, but I kind of liked Professor a little. He told funny stories about his students, and we both have a common love for quirky British TV shows.

R., my coven sister, came in at one point and I wasn't too happy to see her, since I hadn't told Professor where I worked (I vaguely called it a ‘gift shop’). He doesn’t know I'm a witch – hey, you never tell people on the first date you've murdered 38 people, or that you're a Wiccan! ;) Fortunately, Professor didn't ask too many questions and R. didn't volunteer any information when I introduced them. Whew. Close one. Remember how I told Lizard Man back in January I was Wiccan and then never heard from him again?

R. kindly took a seat at the far end of the luncheonette and I breathed a sigh of relief. I must have done well by Professor, because he asked me out for next weekend!

CHAPTER 3

BELTAINE, OUR SPRING fertility holiday, was bright and beautiful. A little cool, but at least it wasn't raining like it had on some previous Beltaines. It's a bitch, dancing the maypole in the mud.

Barkhamsted is out in the boonies and very New Englandy, lots of trees and stone walls and a firehouse tucked away on Route 179. It's a great location for a coven, but it's a challenge to travel during the winter, all twisty back roads, and of course Amaris, our High Priestess, and her husband live on some dark little unpaved back horse path that no snowplow can reach. I've missed the occasional Yule or Imbolc, just because I didn't want to risk my current incarnation on unsalted roads.

There were already several cars in the small parking lot they've created.

The first time I saw the Covenstead, I thought it was the sort of place I’d like to live in once I remarried. It was a small wood-paneled cottage. On one side of the house was Amaris's herb garden; she grew healing, culinary and magical herbs. Inside, one living room wall was lined with books, mostly by Big Name Pagans, thankfully free of howtubeawitch101 editions. And novels, of course. Lots of witchy novels, including the Harry Potter series which no self-respecting witch was without.

The shelves were decorated with nature's gewgaws; rocks and beach glass and the occasional mermaid's purse from the beach in Nantucket. There were feathers, bones, and statues of deities; driftwood, a bird's wing, and a fishnet draped across the wooden beam over the dining room. One sign in the kitchen read, 'Nothing says lovin' like somethin' from the coven!' and another said, 'Something's brewing!' Dried herbs often hung from the rafters and scented candles graced every room along with at least one altar.

Several of the regulars chorused hello, and Amaris gave me a big hug. She looked terrific, in a long white robe with her hip-length brown hair streaming down her back. She wore her priestess band; a platinum ring around her head with a moonstone on either side of the Triple Crescent. She was a plain woman, but she shone with an undeniable inner beauty, so open and accepting of everyone. Maeve tells me you've got something exciting to show us! she said.

I pulled away and smiled. Of course! I brought my veggies and dip!

Smart ass. C'mon, let's see the book!

Others gathered around. Word had spread, clearly. I pulled a gray plastic shopping bag from a large heavy tourist carry-on from Cozumel – a gift from Roger on our honeymoon – and laid it on the table. I removed the book, rolled in a swath of unbleached thick cotton. Don't touch it, I warned as I carefully unwrapped it. It's very old. Maeve and I are working on identifying its age.

The covenfolk oohed and ahhed as they crowded for a closer look. Anyone here understand Latin? I asked. I'd like to know what the title is.

I do. Luna stepped forward – the coven beauty, in my opinion anyway. I took two years of it in school. Her blue eyes stared down. "Imperium Spirituum Infernalium," she read. "That's, um, Control Of Infernal Spirits."

Does it really say that? I asked. It was an ancient grimoire, a spell book! I had the coolest book in the whole world!

That's what it says. Have you shown this to an expert?

I shook my head. Maeve knows someone who works at the Beinecke Library. Now check this out, there's a strange alphabet we haven't identified yet. I turned to the first page of the weird charts and symbols.

A short stocky dark-haired figure leaned over to look. That's Marchosian, said Rowena. Or She Who Did Not Blow My Cover the other night with Professor.

Marchosian?

It's an alphabet supposedly imparted to some ancient sorcerer by the demon Marchosias. who's said to give true answers to any questions asked.

"Oh, so it's got real spells, as opposed to the usual fakes," I giggled.

So says legend, she smiled. She leaned forward, her long dark hair falling and brushing the pages. Quickly she pushed it back and tucked it behind her ear. She examined for more than a minute a large illuminated Marchosian letter. It was drawn and illustrated more ornately than the rest of the illumination. She squinted and followed the twining of a serpent around the horizontal branches of the letter, colored in green and black with a fiery red and orange eye. The serpent itself was surrounded by a very thin and carefully-applied aura of tiny little dots, so small I couldn't make out the color. May I turn the pages? she asked. I'll be very careful.

Sure, I said, although I glanced ever so quickly at Amaris, who pursed her lips and crinkled her brows. She didn’t trust Rowena much. Ro came to the coven a few years before I did, and became a member before Amaris found out about her past. She was reputed to have spent some time – no one seems to know exactly how much – following the 'Left-Hand Path', which in Paganism is generally recognized as the not-so-nice side of magical practice and ethics. There's more of an emphasis on self-gratification and personal development, with little of Wicca's concern for helping others or keeping one's desires and negative impulses in check. It can easily veer off into the world of black magic. The Church of Satan was a popular example of a Left-Hand Path, although not by far the only one, and neither the least nor most extreme example.

I didn't know too much about left-handers, but I knew some were ceremonial magicians who dabbled in invoking and evoking spirits (one invokes a spirit which is one's equal or superior, like a deity; one evokes a spirit that is one's inferior, like a demon). I didn't know anything about Rowena's background, nor had I ever asked her about it as she seemed rather embarrassed about it. Plus, she'd always made me a little uncomfortable, and I never knew why; even before I knew about her shadowy past.

Still, she'd identified the strange alphabet, and maybe she could tell us more. She carefully turned the pages, barely touching the edges of the vellum as she absorbed the charts and text.

It's a spell book, for certain, she finally pronounced. There's something here about conjuring Baal from the Bible. And an incantation for bringing ill fortune upon your enemies. Another promotes chastity in wayward women. Here are instructions on the proper way to sacrifice a black lamb during a full moon to bring back the dead.

Necromancy, charming, Amaris commented, managing a polite smile. Samantha, be a good girl now, and no hexing Roger, got it?

Yeah, I'll bet these all really work, I snickered.

Amaris frowned a bit. Yeah, well, don't decide later to try any! she warned, in a tone that made me suspect maybe she wasn't just saying it for my benefit.

Don't be ridiculous, Amaris. They're silly superstition. I don't believe in all the stuff that Cagliostro and Paracelsus and Nostradamus could supposedly do. Fakes, the lot of them.

Amaris cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms. Don't be so sure, she replied. A lot of the magic originating in medieval times was crap, but some of it was real. The magic of Abramelin the Mage was supposed to be pretty strong stuff.

Anyone tried one of his spells lately? I asked. Okay, I may practice witchcraft myself, but I think I have a pretty level-headed understanding of what can truly be accomplished with raising energy, the essence of magic. I mean, has anyone actually raised the dead by slaughtering a black lamb under a full moon?

The Scholar doubts again, smiled Dove, the coven mead-brewer and source of naughty jokes. I was the coven stickler for historical accuracy and rationalism, so some of them teasingly gave me the nickname. I was unapologetic about being more skeptical than some about paranormalism. Sure, I think you can alter the world around you with your will in a limited fashion, if you know how to work with raised energy, but I laugh my ass off at books like the fifteenth-century Malleus Maleficarum. Written by two credulous Catholic priests, it debated at length such ridiculous points as whether incubi can withdraw sperm from a human male and transport it long distances to deposit it in the uterus of a woman. It amazes me that anyone ever believed stupid crap like that.

Rowena looked about to say something, but then thought better of it. This is one impressive volume, she concluded. You're really lucky.

I know. I still can't believe Mrs. Dunlop gave this to me – a total stranger! I exulted. Thanks for identifying the alphabet, Ro – now I can search on Marchosian when I get home.

AMARIS PULLED ME ASIDE later, while everyone was still eating dinner. Let's go outside, she suggested with an easy smile. I grabbed my cloak and followed her to the backyard. Darkness enveloped us and I felt a chill in the air.

Be very careful around Rowena with that book, Amaris began as we circled the yard. I don't like the interest she showed earlier.

Can you blame her? I shrugged. "How often do you ever get to touch something like that? We usually only see books this old in museums, behind glass. She was able to touch something that was maybe hundreds of years old. Hell, I lose my breath every time I approach it. It's a piece of history, Amaris, and it belongs to me!"

But you have to understand, Rowena can't be trusted. If I'd known before what I know about her now, I’d have never let her into the coven.

I know she has some dark past, I said. Look, she creeps me out a little too. But whatever she did before she came here, she doesn't seem to do it anymore. I've been with the Barking Hamsters for two years, and she speaks like the perfect little witch. Although her eyes are a little penetrating. Kind of creepy.

I gazed up at the clear night sky. Barkhamsted is far enough away from neighboring Winsted that sometimes the stars stand out like someone scattered a sack of diamonds.

I just think you should – be careful around her. I'm not completely convinced she's given up her old ways, Amaris said.

Has she given you any reason to think so?

I can't say she has, Samantha – it's just a feeling. They're not a hundred percent good vibes. She says and does everything right – but I can't shake the idea that Rowena is not entirely to be trusted.

She was kind enough not to bust me in front of a date the other night.

What?

I told her about my date with Professor, a/k/a Tom, and how Rowena didn’t rat me out about my religion.

Amaris sighed. I'd like to think she's reformed her ways.

From what little I’ve read, not everyone who calls herself a 'left-hander' is necessarily playing with the Dark Side. Sometimes the path describes people who practice magic but reject the idea that you need higher powers for help, or perhaps who think you can engage negative intent when injustice has occurred.

I know, but I researched her after I found out about her past, Amaris explained. She supposedly joined a group during the eighties around here called the Worldwide Church of Satanic Liberation.

"The what?" I didn't know whether to laugh or be horrified.

Oh, it was some joke started up by a local character from the Naugatuck Valley. It never had any real influence. It's disbanded now. As far as I can tell it was for lame-asses who played at being Satanists. Although granted, the Satanic scene in general is pretty lame-ass—

She was a Satanist?

She used to post on an Internet ceremonial magic group in the early nineties, and she mentioned this Satanic group a couple of times. I confirmed later she’d also been a member around 1993 of a shadowy group down in Bridgeport that fancied themselves general occult bad-asses. The sort of people who were into vampire role-playing, who listened to hardcore heavy metal, and tried to impress others with their mojo. And I think her husband was a Satanist too.

Yeah, I'll bet they were scary mothers, I snorted.

Samantha. Amaris took my arm. My point is, don’t be too cavalier about that book. You don't know anything about it, and if it really can conjure spirits, it could be more dangerous than you know.

"Amaris, really," I replied. I can't even read it and even if I could, do you honestly think I'd slaughter a lamb under a full moon? You were joking about Roger, right? You didn't really think I'd try to hex him, did you?

No, no, no, Samantha – I know you wouldn't. I'm just saying, don't assume that everything magical from the Middle Ages was humbug. Don't even be sure that ancient rites and rituals, like the ones we know from the Egyptians or Sumerians, were always nonsense. There were frauds and charlatans and simply deluded people in all times and places, but there were also honest seekers who may well have gotten spiritual messages from another plane.

I fell silent and tried to listen with an open mind.

"Some figured out how to manipulate energy, which the profane didn't understand, who believed that working magic was like following a recipe. Boil this herb and do this dance under the rising Mercury and swing a dead cat over your head in a cemetery at midnight, and you’ll cure your warts or succeed in bringing your lover back. We know magic doesn't work like that, but the idiots who paid for membership in the Worldwide Church of Satanic Liberation probably didn't. You know the Barking Hamsters have worked some pretty awesome magic, and it's dead certain that some of our ancestors before us did too. Remember when Dove’s father was diagnosed with emphysema and we performed healing circles and he recovered? All I'm saying is take it seriously, because I believe Rowena does."

We walked a little farther. Was she really a Satanist? I laughed.

I suppose she thought she was. She was young. They're the ones most susceptible to this Satanic silliness, the ones who get a big boner at the thought of joining the Church of Satan. Which, by the way, was open during Anton LaVey's day to pretty much anyone with money and their fifteen minutes of fame.

DATE: SUNDAY, MAY 5, 2002

To: Gareth Dunstan

From: Samantha

Subject:  So far, so good...

Hiya Crumpet Boy! Maeve contacted her friend from the Beinecke, we’re meeting him next weekend. I’ve researched medieval grimoires, but there’s not much on the Internet about the Imperium. Must not have been a bestseller. ;)

The second and third dates with Tom went pretty well. I’m attracted to him, and he seems to like me. Today we went hiking and had a picnic among the evergreens and then went up the mountain to the four-story lookout tower. Tom brought his GPS thingy and kept me apprised of where we were at any given spot, whether I needed to know or not. ;)

He also kissed me! It was at the top of the lookout tower – very sweet, and he seemed a little shy, but I think I melted a bit.

Then, when we said goodbye, he did it again. I melted a bit more.

We're going out again next weekend. We don't know what we're going to do yet. We exchanged e-mail addresses and will discuss it later.

He is *so* cute. ;)

ANONYMOUS DIVORCED WITCHBABE

Sunday, May 5, 2002

All right, you filthy jackals. Enough already asking for more smut and wank-fuel for all your nasty little pornographic fantasies. Professor and I haven't even gotten close to bumping uglies. ;)

I know I gave you a blow-by-blow description of all the times Han Solo Look-Alike and I got down 'n' dirty last fall. I do hope to have something more – indelicate, as Victorian writers would put it – to describe shortly. He kissed me in the park. It was glorious, magical – stop rolling your eyes, boys, this fairy tale crap is for us chicks, so close your eyes and reach for your joystick while contemplating what I will do to Professor shortly. After that kiss, I find myself preoccupied with him, so I hope he’s finding the same. The second time he kissed me, I wanted to grab his hand and put it on my breast, but that would have been inappropriate in the parking lot. ;)

Billy in Ottawa says even though he doesn't know what I look like, he has mad fantasies about me. And Genna in whatever-that-tiny-town-in-western-Nebraska-is said I give her hope that she’ll one day find a sexual man since her ex-hubby for some weird reason didn't like sex. Faithful reader Da Bomb outta New Yawk asked if I have