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He snorted softly. If he recalled aright, he had been born on a Friday just before midnight. How did one associate love and beauty and the colors of roses with a man who stalked the shadows of the night, preying upon the lives of others? And surely any color associated with a vampire's life should be the deep dark red of blood.
With a shake of his head, Roshan continued reading. Saturday was ruled by Saturn, leaning toward longevity, home, and endings. Saturday's colors were dark— indigo and brown, blue and gray. Sunday was, of course, ruled by the sun, bringing healing and spirituality, strength and protection. Sunday's colors were benevolent— gold and orange, peach and yellow.
He thumbed through the rest of the book, reading the names of witches known in history and legend. Hecate, the Green Goddess of witches. Hecate was worshipped at the dark of the moon at places where three roads came together. It was said that she had three heads— horse, serpent, and dog— and thus she was able to see in three directions at once.
Morgan Le Fey, said to be a student of Merlin the magician. Nimue, also known as the Lady of the Lake. Circe, who lived on a magical isle in the midst of the sea. Medea, the goddess of snakes. Then there was a fifteenth-century Yorkshire witch known as Mother Shipton. It was said she possessed the power to heal and cast spells. He thought it interesting that she had also been a seer who had seen modern-day inventions such as airplanes and cars. Anne Boleyn, second wife of Henry VIII, had been suspected of being a witch because she had a sixth finger on one hand.
Caught up in the subject, he read further. Elisabeth Sawyer, who had been known as the Witch of Edmonton, had been accused of casting spells on her neighbors' children and on her neighbors' cattle because they refused to buy her brooms. At last, he thought with a wry grin, a witch with a broom. When Elisabeth, under duress, confessed to being a witch, she was hanged.
Another chapter dealt with spells. A sachet bag filled with rosemary, thyme, and sage was believed to be effective in attracting love. There was also a money-making charm. For this spell, a witch cut twelve pieces of paper into the size of banknotes. The paper was then to be put into a box, with thyme sprinkled between each piece. The box was to be tied with green string in thirty-one knots and buried no more than seven inches deep. If done properly, the box would contain real money when it was dug up exactly one year later.
He read that wood taken from an alder tree was used to summon spirits from the other world. Sitting back, he thought about that. Perhaps he could find a witch who could summon Brenna Flanagan's essence, but then, he wanted more than her spirit.
Closing the book, he thought of his own witch woman. Brenna Flanagan. Even her name appealed to him. He murmured it aloud, liking the way it felt on his tongue.
It was time.
Retrieving the picture he had printed earlier, he left the house.
Standing in the backyard, her likeness clutched in his hand, he let the night enfold him, its blackness drawn to the blackness within his soul, hiding him from the rest of the world.
He stared at her image, his gaze focused on her face as he chanted her name over and over again, and all the while he imagined himself spinning backward through time, each breath, each passing moment, drawing him away from the world he knew and closer to hers.
In the space of a heartbeat, thought became reality and desire became destiny. He was traveling through a long black tunnel. He saw the years falling away, the centuries receding as the modern world passed into the murky clouds of the past.
The twentieth century, fraught with wars and rumors of wars, with inventions people in his time had never dreamed of— televisions, computers, compact disc players, microwave ovens, jet planes, cell phones, frozen foods, penicillin, the Tommy gun, and the atomic bomb.
The nineteenth century had introduced the world to the steam locomotive, the printing press, typewriters and telephones, elevators and bicycles, Coca Cola, sewing machines and machine guns, and the Civil War.
The eighteenth century saw the creation of the piano, the steamboat, and the cotton gin, the fire extinguisher and sextant, submarines and parachutes, and the French Revolution.
The seventeenth century gave the world the air pump, the telescope, pocket watches and pressure cookers, Dom Perignon champagne, and the Salem Witch Trials.
He closed his eyes as he felt an abrupt cessation of movement, followed by a rush of dizziness.
When he opened his eyes again, his house and yard were gone and he was standing outside a circle of gnarled oak trees.
In the distance, he saw a small house with a thatched roof. A plume of gray smoke spiraled from the chimney. Yellow candlelight flickered in the window.
But it was the woman dancing in the moonlight who caught and held his gaze. A woman with fiery red hair and knowing green eyes. A woman who was naked save for the shimmering veil of her hair and a necklace of amber and jet.
He stared at her for stretched seconds, unable to believe his eyes. She was more beautiful than any artist could paint. Her skin was unblemished by mole or scar, her slender figure perfectly formed. Dancing within a circle of white candles, she moved with a lithe grace that carried an air of unconscious sensuality combined with the innocence of a woman who had not known a man's touch. Moonlight combined with candlelight to bathe her in a halo of silver. Her hair fell over her shoulders and down her back like a river of molten red silk.
Captivated, he could only stand there, watching as she lifted her arms toward the heavens, then spun in a graceful circle, chanting, "Light of night, hear my song, bring to me my love, ere long."
Her voice wrapped around him, warm and mesmerizing with the same low husky quality he had heard in his mind while he slept, a sound that reminded him of firelight playing over velvet on a winter night.
"Brenna." Her name whispered past his lips, and with it a rush of desire the likes of which he had never known.
At the sound of her name, Brenna stopped dancing. In an instant, she whirled in his direction, her gaze searching the deep shadows of the night.
"Who is it?" She took a step forward, unconcerned by her nudity. "John Linder, is that you? Show yourself if you dare."
She waited a moment, but heard nothing. Deciding she must have imagined it, she was about to turn away when she saw a bit of movement between one tree and the next. A chill ran down her spine as a dark shape separated itself from the shadows.
Her first thought was that she had somehow summoned the devil himself, for the creature walking toward her seemed to be a part of the very night that surrounded her. He was tall and lean with powerful shoulders and long limbs. His hair was as black as the inside of her kettle. Even in the dark she could see that his eyes were a bold midnight blue set beneath straight black brows. His skin was pale, though not sickly looking. More like that of a healthy man who spent little time in the sun.
