said.
“What’s to discuss?” Jason asked.
Leigh ignored the harshness of his tone. “Well, I went online and did some research about modern witchcraft. I didn’t realize it before — guess I just never paid attention — but these days it seems to be pretty well accepted. Amazon has all kinds of how-to books on the subject. I ran down some major magazine articles that spoke of it as being a folk religion. There are people who claim to be witches doing the talk-show circuit, and they aren’t being persecuted. Why, besides Adrian’s vision, is everyone here so scared?”
“Most people consider talk-show witches and books on the subject as entertainment and aren’t threatened by it,” Craig said. “Some scholars and intellectuals understand the reality of it, and write wonderful articles in an attempt to dispel the myths, but they’re only going to appeal to other scholars and intellectuals. The problem lies with narrow-minded people who tend to be threatened by what doesn’t fit into their own specific niche, because if anything else is right, then they’ve got to be wrong. Add to all this a charismatic leader like the preacher man, his labeling of us as Satanists — a heady subject these days everywhere — small town mentality like Montvue’s, a seemingly respectable and powerful family such as ours, and you have a major kaboom waiting to happen.”
“And don’t forget about our ancestors who were killed for witchcraft,” Glynis said. “If for no other reason, we’re scared because it’s happened to us before.”
“Then there’s this,” Jason said, shaking the newspaper.
“Well, at least the killer dyke didn’t defend the enemy,” Melanie said. “She is actually making an attempt at reason in the article.”
“Killer dyke?” Leigh asked.
Melanie nodded. “Diane Fox, the reporter. As a reporter, she tends to go for the jugular, and, well, everyone knows she’s a dyke. I mean, she dresses like a guy, and she doesn’t date or anything. I think her kid must have been a case of rape or artificial insemination or something.”
Leigh sighed.
Helena came in with a fresh pot of coffee.
“What’s with the phone ringing off the hook this morning?” Jason asked her.
Helena shook her, head. “You don’t want to know.” She began to refill cups. “But I will say it’s amazing how well some of those Christians out there can swear.”
“What do you think of all this, Helena?” Leigh asked.
“All what?”
“The fact that you work for a family of accused witches.”
“Well, it’s no surprise to me.”
“Oh, you knew, then?”
Helena smiled a beautiful, slow smile “Well, very often it takes one to know one.”
Sergeant Tom Cosworth of the Montvue Police Department wasn’t surprised when the phone call came in. He had read the morning newspaper.
“Is this the head honcho, the biggest cheese?” a man’s voice asked when Cosworth picked up the phone.
Cosworth scratched his ample belly and relit his tired cigar. He was alone in the cop shop at the moment, and didn’t much care for the non-smoking rules. “Well, Lieutenant Brody is the watch commander, but he’s unavailable right now. I’m Sergeant Cosworth. What do you need?”
“This is Dr. Craig Hawthorne of the Hawthorne Witch Club. I assume you’ve heard of our respected organization.”
Cosworth chuckled. “Yep, your PR department’s done a bang-up job.”
“So, would you understand it if I said that our teeth are chattering and our knees are knocking?”
Cosworth chewed on his cigar butt. “Yep, I would.”
“Can the distinguished men — and women, of course — in blue, or whatever color you’re wearing these days, make like the cavalry?”
“Well, Dr. Hawthorne, there’s not a whole lot we can do at this stage of the game.”
“Does the preacher man have a permit?”
“Doesn’t need one.”
“Doesn’t need one? You need a permit to take a piss in this goddamn country! What do
“What’s to discuss?” Jason asked.
Leigh ignored the harshness of his tone. “Well, I went online and did some research about modern witchcraft. I didn’t realize it before — guess I just never paid attention — but these days it seems to be pretty well accepted. Amazon has all kinds of how-to books on the subject. I ran down some major magazine articles that spoke of it as being a folk religion. There are people who claim to be witches doing the talk-show circuit, and they aren’t being persecuted. Why, besides Adrian’s vision, is everyone here so scared?”
“Most people consider talk-show witches and books on the subject as entertainment and aren’t threatened by it,” Craig said. “Some scholars and intellectuals understand the reality of it, and write wonderful articles in an attempt to dispel the myths, but they’re only going to appeal to other scholars and intellectuals. The problem lies with narrow-minded people who tend to be threatened by what doesn’t fit into their own specific niche, because if anything else is right, then they’ve got to be wrong. Add to all this a charismatic leader like the preacher man, his labeling of us as Satanists — a heady subject these days everywhere — small town mentality like Montvue’s, a seemingly respectable and powerful family such as ours, and you have a major kaboom waiting to happen.”
“And don’t forget about our ancestors who were killed for witchcraft,” Glynis said. “If for no other reason, we’re scared because it’s happened to us before.”
“Then there’s this,” Jason said, shaking the newspaper.
“Well, at least the killer dyke didn’t defend the enemy,” Melanie said. “She is actually making an attempt at reason in the article.”
“Killer dyke?” Leigh asked.
Melanie nodded. “Diane Fox, the reporter. As a reporter, she tends to go for the jugular, and, well, everyone knows she’s a dyke. I mean, she dresses like a guy, and she doesn’t date or anything. I think her kid must have been a case of rape or artificial insemination or something.”
Leigh sighed.
Helena came in with a fresh pot of coffee.
“What’s with the phone ringing off the hook this morning?” Jason asked her.
Helena shook her, head. “You don’t want to know.” She began to refill cups. “But I will say it’s amazing how well some of those Christians out there can swear.”
“What do you think of all this, Helena?” Leigh asked.
“All what?”
“The fact that you work for a family of accused witches.”
“Well, it’s no surprise to me.”
“Oh, you knew, then?”
Helena smiled a beautiful, slow smile “Well, very often it takes one to know one.”
Sergeant Tom Cosworth of the Montvue Police Department wasn’t surprised when the phone call came in. He had read the morning newspaper.
“Is this the head honcho, the biggest cheese?” a man’s voice asked when Cosworth picked up the phone.
Cosworth scratched his ample belly and relit his tired cigar. He was alone in the cop shop at the moment, and didn’t much care for the non-smoking rules. “Well, Lieutenant Brody is the watch commander, but he’s unavailable right now. I’m Sergeant Cosworth. What do you need?”
“This is Dr. Craig Hawthorne of the Hawthorne Witch Club. I assume you’ve heard of our respected organization.”
Cosworth chuckled. “Yep, your PR department’s done a bang-up job.”
“So, would you understand it if I said that our teeth are chattering and our knees are knocking?”
Cosworth chewed on his cigar butt. “Yep, I would.”
“Can the distinguished men — and women, of course — in blue, or whatever color you’re wearing these days, make like the cavalry?”
“Well, Dr. Hawthorne, there’s not a whole lot we can do at this stage of the game.”
“Does the preacher man have a permit?”
“Doesn’t need one.”
“Doesn’t need one? You need a permit to take a piss in this goddamn country! What do
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