Chapter 3
Monday – Moon in Gemini, Waning Crescent
At our usual café date, Lisa dabs her mouth with her oversized napkin, then toys with the low-carb dish she orders every week. Behind her vintage Gloria Steinem glasses, she’s avoiding my eyes. “I got a call from Tammie.”
“And?”
I haven’t heard from my most timid student in almost two weeks. Neither Lisa nor Tammie have been officially dedicated into Dragon Hart Wicca, but both plan to just as soon as I receive my Third Degree later this week. The ceremony kicks off a year’s probation for each dedicant, and at the end of the year, provided I agree, each will decide whether to undergo Initiation. Most likely, I’ll conduct the ceremony at the Harvest Moon with a huge bonfire and an abundance of no-carb and low-carb food.
Lisa, who’s in her mid-thirties and takes her super-feminist fashion seriously, has already asked to be the first member of my RavenHart Coven, which will be a subset of the Dragon Hart Grand Coven. Tammie, a younger and newer member of the teaching circle I started earlier in the year, immediately asked to be the second Initiate. My other three students, all of whom are pushing forty, have not yet decided if they want formal training or if showing up at my house once every four weeks for an afternoon workshop and ritual is more than enough to satisfy their thirsts. And then there’s Josie, my Goth-pagan friend from work who dates a private investigator and who “isn’t into group things” but wants me to work with her privately, particularly with the Dark Goddess.
Now I’m not sure what to do. Donna’s asked me to decide about staying or leaving the Dragon Hart Grand Coven. If I leave—and I don’t know why I would—then my coven won’t be officially a Dragon Hart coven, and they will have to get that specific training elsewhere, probably by requesting a different High Priestess to be assigned to teach them. If I had already Initiated them, then the matter would be even stickier. As it is, now I owe not only Donna an answer, but if I leave the Grand Coven, I will also owe an explanation to my students, who might prefer to train for the priesthood within the auspices of Dragon Hart.
I decide to keep quiet about this to Lisa and Tammie until after my Elevation. I want to be sure.
On the other side of the lunch table, Lisa looks uncomfortable. “Tammie’s gone back to Kentucky to stay with her parents for a while. She and her husband are having some problems.”
“Oh,” I say, pretending I don’t already know through at least thirty lunch hours of counseling sessions over sweet tea and chef salads at a local pizza place that’s affordable for both of us. Tammie’s as codependent as I have been most of my life, and her husband is as verbally abusive to her as Quent has been to me. She’s finally figuring out what she wants in life and making a plan to go after it. I’m proud of her progress, but a little taken aback that she left town without telling me.
“She’ll be back,” Lisa assures me, downing a teaspoon of organic apple cider vinegar she brought with her. She makes a face and contemplates the steamed vegetables on the plate in front of her. Lisa’s down to a size four and will, no doubt, tell me more about her diet than I ever want to know and how it’s a lifestyle, not a diet, and how I, too, could be a size four if I exercised my willpower. “Tammie just needed some time away. She wasn’t going to tell any of us, but… well, I have The Gift, you know.”
Yes, Lisa has gifts. What she doesn’t say is more important than what she does say. Lisa has certain psychic gifts, and I don’t. Yet I’m to be her teacher.
I’ll admit, there have been times when I’ve felt deficient. A High Priestess should be able to do everything, right? Psychic abilities, visions, Tarot reading, healing, actually seeing the electric outline of the circles you cast, just about anything you can think of. Except that I don’t have what Lisa calls “The Gift of Knowing,” which she received out of the blue several years ago. And I don’t have what she calls “The Gift of Healing,” which has come more recently to Lisa. I’m told these will come to me as well, but in a different way, and only after I clear some shadows from my life.
Lisa has an uncanny ability to touch someone, absorb their pain, and then set it free. I’ve seen her use it five times now, each time in circle with my group. The first time was a surprise, but with each repeat, she becomes more confident. I’ve seen her take away chest pains and close emotional wounds. She’s proud of her gift, almost as much as she is of her hellion-child daughter who’s visiting Grammy today and her blissful marriage to a Tarot-reading, ceremonial magician who’s also a psychiatrist at a local hospital.
I don’t have the healing gift. I have wished for it many times, especially when my friend Jim was dying of cancer. I wish I had it, but I don’t. Maybe someday.
Then again, there’s no prerequisite out there that says that every coven leader must have certain gifts or they’re not worthy of teaching their Initiates. I like to think that we all have different gifts, some more amplified than others, and that we can share those gifts with each other. Maybe I can’t heal and maybe I can’t read a Celtic Cross spread worth a crap for anyone but myself, but I have other gifts, amazing gifts, including being able to bring together certain groups of people for certain purposes. I’m proud of those gifts, and I refuse to feel second-rate if I don’t possess every gift in the witch handbook.
Besides, I prefer to think of myself the way Donna explains it: I’m not so much a teacher as I am a facilitator. It’s the Old Gods who do the teaching and the healing. I’m just a go-between. A conduit.
“By the way,” Lisa continues, raising a critical eyebrow as I bite into my ham and cheese croissant, “I want to take my formal dedication at Samhain. You’ll have your Third by then, and that’ll mark a year and a day since I told you I wanted to Initiate under you.”
Pleased, I smile across the table at her. I’d told her I wanted to know when she felt ready. “Of course. But keep in mind that this path may not be for you. Or that a tradition other than Dragon Hart may be a more intimate path for you.”
She frowns, misunderstanding. She thinks I’m saying no. I’m not.
“You know, Lisa, even though a formal degree program calls for Initiations and Elevations through a directed process, it’s the Old Gods who take you through the steps, with or without a High Priestess to help you along. The progress I’ve seen you make in the last year? I’d say you’re already going through the equivalent of your First Degree. You know, learning about your gifts, attuning to the Goddess, that sort of thing. You don’t have to be in a coven to work through the stages, but I do think it helps to have a High Priestess to support you through the process.”
She nods emphatically. Her granny glasses slide down her nose, and she shoves them back into place as she waves away a waiter. “I want to be a High Priestess. Third Degree. I need to be if I’m going to use my healing gift.” Before I can quiz her on why she needs to be clergy to heal, she adds, “Especially if we’re going to run a non-profit healing center.”
Ah, the healing center. The Center of Light. Yes. We’ve talked about it so many times in the past year. Ever since Lisa and I ran into each other at a sword and dagger booth at a Renaissance Faire, we’ve shared our identical visions for a building for non-traditional healers, spiritual workshops, a metaphysical library, a nature preserve, psychic readings, and even yoga classes and a little childcare for nature-loving children. I envision small dormitories on the premises where traveling teachers and healers and artists can stay for free for a week at a time while they earn their keep by teaching and make extra money selling their crafts, music, and art. I hope for a curriculum where students of Wicca, Neo-Wicca, and various forms of magickal studies can buy lessons and other resource material cheaply online to hone their special gifts or broaden their knowledge of manifestation. I dream of—
“Crows,” I whisper, squinting through the café’s window across the parking lot to the medical clinic I patronize and to the neighboring fast-food place I frequent once a day for a to-go breakfast biscuit to be wolfed down on the way to work. “Have you ever seen so many crows?”
Sonnet calls them “witch birds.” She’s not wrong.
Lisa laughs and cocks her head to follow my gaze. There must be several dozen birds circling the parking lot over a convertible silver Porsche. The man in the driver’s seat looks familiar. He parks, head back as he observes the crows, his hand over his eyes to shield his face from the sun or perhaps from the crows themselves. They light, finally, in the pines above the building, on the building, on the safety rail to the employee entrance.
Crows. Why are there so many crows over the clinic? Why the overwhelming abundance of this animal totem? Are they telling me to pay attention? To make an appointment for my knees? Right now?
“Cute guy,” Lisa says. Then her eyes widen. “Don’t tell my husband I said that.”
I shrug. Why would I? She’s right—the guy is cute—but it’s just an observation. She hasn’t mentioned anything about wanting to jump his bones.
“My mate and I have the most amazing connection,” Lisa continues as if to defend the fact that she’s human and can appreciate a good-looking man.
I know what she’s going to say next. I could recite it with her, word for word. Instead, I watch the parking lot through the plate-glass windows of the café. The man in the Porsche is still there, tinkering with something in the passenger seat. One last crow circles overhead and lands on the handrail near the clinic entrance a few feet away from him.
“Raven, I just pray that one day you’ll find a love like ours. My mate and I, we’re a unit. We function as one person. I know you never had that with Quent.”
I nod. I’ve heard it all before. Many times. Many.
The man in the Porsche looks familiar. Where do I know him from? His brown hair is a little long on top, almost in his eyes. But I can’t see anything more of him than the back of his head. Lisa has a better view, but she’s trying not to look.
“No,” I murmur. “Never with Quent.”
Lisa leans forward across the table, her blouse skimming the steamed vegetables on her plate. “If you want, I’ll take your palm and press it to my bosom.”
“What?” I jerk my head up. Did I just hear her right?
But she’s completely serious. “Well, to my heart. You should know what it’s like to have the kind of love and joy and inner peace that my mate and I have for each other. If you want, I’ll press your hand to my heart and let you feel what it’s like to have that joy, so you’ll know when the right man comes along.” She smiles serenely, meaningfully, and then with her right hand, she holds her left hand to her heart as a surrogate for mine. “I have that gift, too, you know? To share my joy with others.”
I shake off the image she wants to impart and glance again out the window. The man in the Porsche now stands over the car, sunglasses on and head lowered, punching something into his phone. His back is to me, but he’s slim with an athletic build. Nice clothes. A sort of business casual, but not the expensive stuff. I have no desire for a boyfriend or even a date right now, given the state of my divorce and my lack of trust in men, and especially not one who doesn’t look a day over thirty, but Lisa’s right: this man is attractive. Very.
“When you’re ready to date again, I know a couple of men you might be interested in. Daniel. Jackson. Luke. Daniel—his friends call him Thor—used to be in Special Ops in the military. Jackson may be bisexual, if that’s okay—”
I say nothing but make a face. Quent had way too many gay friends who “kept up appearances” with unsuspecting wives. I had no qualms about anyone’s sexuality, but the deception was more than I could handle.
“And Luke’s about your type. I could invite them all to my Samhain party and let you pick.”
“No, but thanks.”
“Well, you think about it. You’re not getting any younger. Samhain’s a good two months away. Luke, one of the men I’m thinking of, works with my husband at the hospital. His wife died a few years ago, and we’ve been trying to get him to get back into circulation.”
Something clicks in my head. Something Leo said. I turn slowly back to Lisa. “He’s a widower?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
Leo had said that The Treat’s wife was dead, or dead to him. “Does he have kids?”
“Yeah. Two. He’s about thirty-five. Younger than you.”
I laugh, which leaves a confused expression on Lisa’s face. “Do you know if he plays the guitar?”
She frowns. “No idea. Why? Do you want me to find out?”
I shake my head. I’m not ready for another man in my life. I have too much to do right now. An Elevation to prepare for. A divorce to get through. Still, the idea of The Treat being a real person is intriguing.
“The Gods love you so much…”
The man in the parking lot pockets his phone, reaches into his passenger seat, and extracts a white shirt. No. A lab coat. He swings his long arms into it and adjusts the shoulders. It’s tight on his upper arms where his muscles bulge. He tugs at the sleeves, then gives up. A split second later, he grabs a brown paper bag from the front seat. Lunch from the burger place down the street.
In three quick bounds, he reaches the employee entrance to the clinic. He waves one arm with a flourish, and the crows scatter to the winds. Looking up at them, he grins, and at last I see his face.
“I think that’s my doctor,” I say, maneuvering for a better look. A dump truck passes outside, and by the time it’s gone, so is he. “Last time I saw him, back in April, he had a crew cut. I need to make an appointment to—”
Lisa lets loose a little belch. She’s mortified and excuses herself quickly to the restroom, explaining that it’s a side effect of her new diet. I hardly notice.
Dr. Matthews. I like this man. He’s been gentle with my kids, and he’s treated me for repetitive stress injuries three or four times and at least once for allergies when he put me on bed rest against Quent’s wishes. He’s married to some stunningly beautiful woman in her twenties—I’ve seen their wedding photos on his desk—and he is one of the few non-witches in this town to recognize the true meaning of my pentagram jewelry and talk intelligently about it. He always spends twenty or thirty minutes with me in an office appointment, quickly dispensing a prescription or diagnosis and the rest of the time chatting about Wicca and the advantages of matriarchal societies. He knows more about my magick than most people around here. Is his wife a witch, too? I’ve wondered several times, not because I’ve ever met her but because of his regard for women and the Goddess. Maybe the two of them might be interested in attending one of my mind-body-spirit workshops or a gathering at my house. They’d fit in well with the rest of my group.
I fish my phone out of my purse and call the clinic. It’s an easy number to remember, and I’ve been calling it for the past decade, since two doctors prior to Dr. Matthews. The receptionist answers on the fifth ring.
“I can get you in tomorrow afternoon,” she tells me.
“You have nothing any sooner? Maybe work me in? He’s done that before for me. My knees are really hurting.”
“Sorry. Everybody loves Dr. Matthews. He’s gotten so popular that it’s hard to get an appointment with him unless you know a month in advance that you’re going to be sick. The hospital we work for won’t let him refuse new patients. Fortunately, someone cancelled about five minutes before you called, so he has an opening for tomorrow if you want it, but in another five minutes, it’ll be gone.”
I quickly give her my insurance information and agree to the date and time—tomorrow—which is two days before I fly to Maryland. If I can’t get in to have my knees checked on before my trip to the Grand Coven meeting, I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk then. How interesting that an appointment just cancelled before I called. Clearly, the Old Gods are at work here!
I drop my phone back into my purse as Lisa returns. She looks a little pasty, but she smiles.
“I should probably tell you,” she says as she slides into the seat across from me, “that I may have injured an old friendship by deciding to be your student.”
All I can do is blink at her. Then finally, I find the words and stutter, “What do you mean?”
“You met BetZ, right?”
I think for a minute, then remember. BetZ was at Lisa’s Beltane party, shortly before I filed for divorce. She was exceptionally cool toward me, and it wasn’t just because her girlfriend found reason no less than three times to touch my face or my hair. BetZ is a well-known local High Priestess, but I’m not sure which tradition she follows or if her coven is eclectic. She’s set herself up as a community spokesperson, and every time the local newspapers want to talk to a “real witch,” they call her. At forty-five and with silver hair to her waist and a penchant for cleavage-baring black dresses, she looks every bit the part.
“Yeah, I met BetZ.”
“You know BetZ’s a High Priestess, too, right? Third Degree.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been friends since we were little girls.” Lisa lets the information sink in. “She asked me several years ago to join her coven. It’s one of the most prestigious covens in the State of Florida, you know?” She waits for me to nod, but I don’t. “Anyway, I told BetZ years ago that if I ever Initiated, I’d do it with her.”
Still, I say nothing. I’ve never heard this story before, though I have heard her complain about BetZ always wanting to borrow money from her and how BetZ has a multi-thousand-dollar ritual robe but can’t pay her electric bills. On one hand, I’m surprised that Lisa would have considered joining BetZ’s group, but on the other hand, I shouldn’t be surprised at all. She’s been closely involved with BetZ’s group for years. Joining them would have been a natural progression.
“Anyhoo, I told BetZ last Yule that I was thinking of joining your coven when you got your Third. She was hurt. Bad. I reminded her I have The Gift of Knowing and I know that I’m supposed to be your student. There’s something you have to teach me I can’t get from anyone else. But she told me later that she’d thought about it and understood. I’d met a really great teacher who could help me with my gifts, and that was more important than her ego. So BetZ was excited about the Beltane party at my house because she wanted to meet this fantastic High Priestess who’d stolen me away from her.”
I study Lisa as I finish my croissant. She has a habit of being blunt. Sometimes I admire that, but suddenly I don’t. Sometimes her affinity for “just being honest” borders on cruelty. I’ve never attempted to steal Lisa or anybody else. I’m simply here if someone is looking for a teacher. I still believe the adage that says when the student is ready, the teacher will appear, so either Lisa hasn’t been ready or BetZ isn’t her teacher.
Lisa pokes at her beans with her fork and makes a face. “It’s too bad you had to bring Quentin to the party. The energy in my house was fouled for a week afterwards. I had to burn Nag Champa non-stop to get rid of his vibes.”
Her words cut deeply. I know how she values the purity of the energy in her home. Only certain people are allowed beyond the threshold, and if someone negative gets through or turns negative once inside, she conducts major week-long house cleansings to get the balance back to what feels right to her. I feel guilty enough about what had happened that night, but Lisa specifically said I could bring Quent and the girls. Neither of us ever thought he’d accept the invitation.
Quent had been at his most controlling the last week of April, accusing me of spending too much time with our daughters and not having enough time with him. He refused to be reminded that the reason Sonnet woke with night terrors every single night directly resulted from the things she’d seen at his favorite websites. The more he lost control over me, the more controlling he became. If I went to the grocery store alone, he would accuse me of excluding him until I went shopping with him in tow, all the while with him grousing about how long I was taking and which foods were off-limits to the girls and me because he thought my food choices were unhealthy. If I put a low-carb product in the grocery cart, he’d take it out and replace it with a high-carb, low-fat product, even though my metabolism falls into a slumber if I eat pasta. In a year, I’ve gained thirty pounds eating the same foods he does.
Normally, Quent hates my friends, regardless of whether they’re witches. He still doesn’t recognize Jan on the street, and she’s been my best friend for over a decade. Not only do we visit one another several times a week, but there are posters of her as “The Angel Lady” in store windows all over town, as well as news stories about her heavenly paintings. Her reputation as a local artist is beloved, except to Quent. He especially hates my witch friends, even though he’d met none of them before the Beltane party. He’s always referred to them as my “cult” and expressed his concern for me that I’m too stupid to know the difference between a cult and a real church, even though he’s an atheist himself and has never attended church except to argue the superiority of his non-beliefs.
When I mentioned I would attend Lisa’s May Day party with the girls, he flipped that proverbial on-off switch and turned suddenly nice, telling me how much he wanted to meet my friends and understand my beliefs. Since then, I realize he was trying to gather information to use against me to control me.
The party surprised him. First, no naked witches running around. And no booze. A few chain-smokers who like to ground by sucking in air, but they all went outside on the front lawn to smoke. Only one guest showed up with a visible tattoo or piercings more extreme than in her earlobe. No drugs. No witches fucking on the floor or on the stairs or anywhere in the house or yard. The party was actually dull by the standards of his own social group, where he was the rock star. He’d been surprised by the number of engineers, scientists, and teachers present and that the most daringly dressed of anyone was the host in his bright green tie with bunny rabbits playing leapfrog.
But I was the one who’d been different. The girls had noticed and had told me. I’d worried the whole evening that he would make a scene, that something would make him unhappy and he’d embarrass me or accuse me of embarrassing him. I tried to please him, and even though he’d promised to take part in our ritual—which we based on the outlandish “Chocolate Ritual” and “sacrificed” a chocolate Easter Bunny—he instead sat on the sidelines and glowered, every five minutes looking at his watch and tapping it, even though the party had started at five o’clock and it wasn’t even seven yet. Eventually, he relaxed and enjoyed himself, but I didn’t. I was on guard all night, fearing what he might say to insult my friends.
“Yeah,” Lisa says, “I think I lost a lot of credibility with BetZ. After you and Quentin and the girls left, she pulled me aside and said, ‘What the hell are you doing? She’s not High Priestess material!’”
I jerk my head up. One thing I learned early in my study as a witch is that you never ever question someone else’s path or their Elevation. At least, not within Dragon Hart. Lady Dragon’s been very clear about that. Questioning can get you kicked out. You never know what the other person has been through to achieve that Elevation.
“And then BetZ said, ‘How could you turn me down for that? I demand you answer me.’ And I told her, ‘I don’t have to answer you. I’m supposed to be her student, and it’s not for me to question, and it’s certainly not for you to question.’”
I stop chewing and swallow. The last of the croissant sticks in my throat. Barbara, one of the Dragon Hart Elders, once told me you have to get through all your lessons to become a High Priestess because once you start your own coven, they’ll expect you to have your act together. If you don’t, they’ll eat you alive.
I am being eaten alive.
“That was before I left Quent. Before I understood I had been abused all these years. Dominated and gas-lighted. I know the difference now.”
“But you’re still codependent.”
I nod. “And I’ll always have those tendencies. It’s part of my daily struggle. Maybe in a few years, they’ll fade. Being a High Priestess doesn’t mean I’ll be perfect, Lisa. I’ll just have more tools to live my life with.”
Lisa shrugs. We finish our meal in silence, then throw several dollars on the table for a tip.
We say goodbye at the door of the café. I start to give Lisa a hug, but she holds up one hand to tell me no. She doesn’t want to mix her energies with mine right now. Maybe after I’ve been away from Quent a little longer, but for now, there’s too much negativity attached to me, and she can’t afford to pick up those bad energies. All I can do is nod my understanding. Lisa’s sensitive like that.
I duck into the post office next door to check my mail before heading back to work. My personal mail, using my mundane name, goes to my home address, but I have a PO box for mail related to my home business and anything witch-related so that Quent won’t get into it. My box is unusually full today. I pull out several invoices and orders for courses and then a thick brown envelope.
I feel the buzz of energy on it as I touch it. My magickal name is written in tight cursive across the front. There is no return address, but the postmark is from Lady Dragon’s hometown, over a thousand miles from here.
My Third Degree exam? It could be. The package is thick, daunting. I’m eager to see if Lady Dragon made any comments in the margins or what she thought of the rituals I wrote specifically for the test. She compiled other Third Degrees’ rituals into a book last year and sold it online to raise money for one of the Grand Coven charities, so I fully expect that she’ll do the same with my rituals once she has enough fodder for a new book. She hasn’t asked for permission, so maybe not.
I tear into the package and pull out a stack of papers. The smell of cigarette smoke and dragon’s blood incense stings my nostrils. This isn’t my exam, but I have a gut feeling it’s my test.
These are printouts of emails from Lady Dragon to the Elders of the Grand Coven and copies of messages back to her. Bank statements. Receipts. A threatening letter from the leader of the Priesthood of Daegan telling Lady Dragon not to hinder Lady Zephyr’s exodus again or pay the price. Letters of dismissal to former Elders. Investigations into new members.
Including me.
Things I’m not meant to see.
Things Lady Dragon doesn’t want me to know.
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