Bad Blood (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 12) Read online

  Bad Blood

  A Witches of Cleopatra Hill Novella

  Christine Pope

  Dark Valentine Press

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BAD BLOOD

  Copyright © 2017 by Christine Pope

  Published by Dark Valentine Press

  Cover design by Lou Harper

  Ebook formatting by Indie Author Services

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Dark Valentine Press.

  Sign up for Christine Pope’s newsletter and get an exclusive Witches of Cleopatra Hill prequel short story!

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  The Arizona Witch Clans

  Also by Christine Pope

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  In several of the Witches of Cleopatra Hill books, there are hints that the ongoing feud between the Wilcox and the McAllister witch clans goes back much further than the attempted kidnapping of Ruby McAllister by Jasper Wilcox in the 1940s.

  Here are the true origins of that feud….

  1

  New York City, April 1877

  Hannah McAllister couldn’t help but gawk at the plate-glass magnificence that confronted her. R.H. Macy’s, proclaimed the sign above the door, while the shop windows offered the promise of all sorts of delights, from lacy parasols to beautifully be-flowered hats. She touched one hand to the straw hat she wore, wondering if it looked obviously homemade compared to the sartorial splendor displayed in the window — and on the streets of the city itself. For this outing, she had worn her best blue dress, but now she thought it must appear terribly plain and drab to anyone with a discerning eye.

  “Are ye plannin’ to go inside, or are ye just goin’ ta look?” her brother Ian teased her.

  “Go inside, of course,” Hannah replied, lifting her chin. His Highlands accent sounded so loud, so conspicuous. She had spent the two weeks of their passage on the steamer they’d taken from Liverpool listening to the passengers from first class as much as possible, doing her very best to absorb the way they pronounced each word, the way they lifted a teacup or paused to pull a handkerchief from a reticule. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d found that if she put on her best gowns and was quiet and smiled her prettiest smiles, the stewards left her alone for the most part. The very last thing she wanted was to be seen as some poor immigrant girl from the Highlands, her Scottish burr proclaiming her origins as soon as she opened her mouth. She was on her way to a new land, and desperately wanted to fit in.

  Ian, unfortunately, appeared to lack any similar concerns. His blue eyes glinted at her now, full of laughter at her pretensions. At least he had not told her to leave off with her affectations. No doubt he found her funny more than anything else. But that was Ian. The whole world appeared to divert him, even though there had been precious little amusing about it lately.

  Still with her chin in the air, she entered the department store. At once the sights and sounds threatened to overwhelm her. Which way to go? The far side of the shop’s ground floor, where she could spy racks and racks of fabric in every shade of the rainbow? The glass case with its tempting display of fine kid gloves and even finer linen handkerchiefs? Or perhaps all the way to the back, where she thought she glimpsed rows of shining boots and delicate-heeled shoes?

  So many different goods, all in one place. Certainly there had been nothing like this in their village of Halkirk back in Scotland, or even in Liverpool, from whence she and two dozen of her clan members had set forth to these American shores. When they’d first arrived in Liverpool, Hannah had never thought she would see a city larger or more bustling, more filled with accents and languages from all over the world. However, New York made Liverpool appear as small as the village where she’d been born, with its crowded streets and tall buildings, the vast expanse of Central Park, where she had gone with her brother just this past weekend. In a way, Hannah was glad that the family would not remain here in New York, that they would be striking out for the Arizona Territories just as soon as all the necessary arrangements had been made.

  Besides, New York was the province of the Van Horn witches, and they would certainly not be willing to share their territory with a clan of newly arrived witches and warlocks from Scotland. A brief stay such as this one was allowed until further travel arrangements could be made, but nothing more. The telegram from Mrs. Van Horn, the New York clan’s prima, had made that much painfully obvious.

  “I hae na use for girlish fripperies,” Ian said. Hannah tried not to wince as several curious glances were sent his way, most notably from a pair of ladies who looked as though they had stepped from the pages of a fashion catalogue, from their elaborately curled hair and perfectly tilted hats to their gowns of elegantly bustled silk and faille. “I’ll be up the second floor, inspectin’ the leather goods. Ye ken find me there when ye’ve finished.”

  “Of course,” she replied formally, and her brother shot her another amused grin before ambling off in the direction of the staircase.

  Doing her best to ignore the disdainful stares of the well-dressed ladies who stood by a case of beaded and embroidered reticules, Hannah judged it wisest to go toward the back of the store where the yard goods were kept. In her own bag — a much plainer specimen she had tatted herself — she had two precious silver dollars that she’d vowed to spend as wisely as possible. High heels and tortoiseshell combs and purses embroidered with silken flowers were all very well, but they would not do her much good in the wilds of Arizona. Better to see if she could purchase some yardage for a new gown, something lightweight but sturdy. She had heard that the Arizona Territories were hot as fire, although she hoped the tales were mostly exaggeration. The Highlands of Scotland did not provide much preparation for living in those sorts of conditions.

  Hannah was happy to see that the clerks at the fabric counter were both occupied with other customers, which meant she would be able to inspect the goods offered there at her leisure, rather than being pressured by a salesclerk to make a decision quickly so she wouldn’t waste too much of their precious time.

  Still, the assortment offered there was extensive enough to be dizzying…silks and wools and cottons in a bewildering variety of colors and patterns. Something plainer would be more versatile — and, she hoped, less expensive. Because of her bright red hair and green eyes, she tended to choose shades of blue and green, although she still quietly longed for pink, even if several of the women in her family took pains on a regular basis to tell her that it was not a becoming shade for a redhead.

  But there was a very nice stripe in deep blue and dark emerald. In her store of trims, now carefully packed away in a steamer trunk, she had some dark blue ribbon that she thought would be a very good match, meaning she wouldn’t have to purchase any additional trim to complete the gown. How much per yard, though? She very much feared that the prices here would be far higher than in Thurso, the town closest
to the tiny village where the McAllisters lived.

  Once lived, she reminded herself, fighting back the wave of sadness that threatened to pass over her. It was all well and good to pretend that this was all a grand adventure, the small McAllister clan starting over in the new world, but the real truth of it was that they’d fought a losing battle to hang on to the lands that had been theirs for nearly a thousand years, until they had no choice but to accept the offer given by their victors, to have every last one of the McAllisters pick up and leave, never to return.

  Melancholy didn’t have much of a chance to overwhelm her this time, however, for even as she clutched her reticule and told herself that she could not allow such a display of weakness in public, she felt a strange tingle at the base of her spine, the tingle that always signaled she was in the presence of another of her kind. It couldn’t be Ian; witches and warlocks used this unspoken warning system to recognize other witch-folk when they were in close enough proximity, but that warning only occurred in the presence of strangers, not around relatives or other people they knew well.

  Hannah half-turned, attempting to identify who in the vicinity might be a witch or warlock. Certainly not either of the clerks behind the counter, nor the customers who clustered a few feet from her, inspecting the bolts of fabric the shopgirls had fetched down from the shelves. No, as her gaze moved from one person to the other, she could tell it was none of them.

  Then she saw him.

  The man had just paused at the far end of the counter, his gaze directed toward the shelves of fabric a few feet away. However, Hannah noticed at once the way his eyes shifted ever so slightly in her direction before returning to the yardage on display. It seemed clear enough to her that he’d been able to tell she was a witch.

  And Goddess, he was handsome. A few years older than she, most likely, but still not more than twenty-five at the most. Tall, and with coal-black hair and eyes, coloring made all the more exotic by the large-brimmed hat and sweeping dark coat he wore. Hannah didn’t think she’d seen a hat like that ever before, not even on the crowded streets of New York, where one might think it was possible to see almost anything.

  Oh, dear, he was coming toward her. Calmly, slowly, as though there was nothing odd about approaching a strange young woman in a public place. Perhaps it wasn’t, here in America; Hannah had been here with her fellow exiled clan members for less than a week, but she’d already noticed that things were done very differently in New York. It wasn’t merely the way people spoke, or dressed…more how they acted toward one another, how they reacted to various situations. Everything was brisk and fast, even more no-nonsense than a Scottish Highlander.

  But then, witches and warlocks had their own rules about certain matters. If one was to encounter a member of a different clan in public, it was considered rude to ignore that person. This stranger must have decided that the etiquette which involved witch-folk was more important than any arbitrary rules about whether it was considered polite to approach a young woman with whom one was not formally acquainted.

  He paused a foot or so away from her, and gave a slight bow. “Afternoon, miss,” he said. His voice was nicely low, but the words themselves were almost clipped, precise. Hannah had spent enough time studying people’s accents that she guessed he must be from here in New York, or at least somewhere in America’s northeast. “I couldn’t help but notice….” He let his words trail off there, but he didn’t need to say anything else. She knew exactly what it was that he had noticed. “May I introduce myself? I’m Nathan Wilcox.”

  Hannah smiled and extended a gloved hand. “Hannah McAllister.” Although she didn’t recognize the warlock’s surname, that didn’t mean very much. He could still be a member of the Van Horn clan; various last names always crept into the witch families due to marriage with outsiders.

  However, because this Nathan Wilcox wasn’t wearing gloves, she could tell that he wasn’t married, for he had no ring. Or perhaps it was not the custom for men to wear wedding rings here in America. She didn’t know for sure, and of course she didn’t dare ask.

  Besides, what did it matter? She was already spoken for.

  “Forgive me, Miss McAllister — are you newly arrived in town? For I don’t think I detect much of New York in your voice.”

  Oh, bother. Had he still heard the burr of her accent, even though she’d done her very best to erase it? A sudden blush bloomed in her cheeks, but she managed to chuckle and say, “You have a good ear, Mr. Wilcox. No, I am not from New York. My family is only staying here for a short time while we arrange travel west.”

  At those words, a sudden smile lit up his face. Something about that smile sent even more blood rushing to her cheeks. She already thought him handsome, but with a new light in those black eyes, and a flash of his white teeth, he was truly devastating.

  No, she should not be thinking of anyone as “devastating.” She was already promised to her cousin Boyd, a betrothal arranged by the former prima before she’d died trying to defend the clan. True, Boyd was sandy-haired and slight of build and lackluster in every way, but he had been the prima’s son, and therefore considered quite a catch. Hannah knew she should have felt honored to be engaged to him, but really, he did seem like a very poor specimen when compared to the handsome warlock who stood before her now.

  “That is a coincidence, then,” Mr. Wilcox said. “For my family is also here in New York to plan our passage west.”

  A rush of delight, of anticipation, went through her at that remark, even though she knew she should not allow herself to care where this Nathan Wilcox might be traveling. Still, the thought of another witch clan going to the Arizona Territories made her feel not quite so alone. And that was even more foolish, because it wasn’t as though the McAllister contingent consisted only of her and her brother Ian and her Uncle Joseph…and the unfortunate Boyd. No, there were twenty-four of them here now, and more who would follow soon enough. Joseph had thought it wise to come here with a smaller group, head west and get settled as best they could, and then send for the rest of the clan, who were currently lingering in Liverpool until the time came for them to sail to America. The Waterhouse clan held sway in that part of Britain, but their prima had graciously allowed the displaced McAllisters to stay there for an extended time, as long as the situation wasn’t permanent.

  “To the Arizona Territories?” she inquired, then feared the question had sounded entirely too hopeful.

  “At first,” Nathan Wilcox replied. “We haven’t quite decided on our final destination yet. My brother — the head of our clan — has a mind to push on all the way to California, but the northern part of Arizona might be acceptable as well. We have heard that there are none of our clans there, only down in the south, where the de la Paz family has been settled for generations. Luckily, they do not seem inclined to spread northward, which means those lands are open to us.”

  “Is that so?” Hannah did her best to keep her disappointment from her tone, because there was no real reason to be disappointed, was there? She had only just met this man; they would speak politely, and then he would return to his family and go on with his day, just as she should with hers. Something he had said piqued her curiosity, however. “Your brother is the leader of your clan? Is that very common in America?”

  The pleasant smile Nathan had been wearing faded abruptly. His expression guarded, he said, “Not so very common, I think, but it works well enough for us.”

  Clearly, she had touched a nerve. Hannah could not help but wonder how Mr. Nathan Wilcox’s brother had come to lead their clan, for she had not heard of such a thing happening for hundreds and hundreds of years. Once upon a time, men had ruled the witch families, but they were too warlike, too inclined to create conflict where there should be none. Such battles between witch clans attracted far too much attention, and so it came to be that women became the guardians of their families, and the territorial lines strictly observed.

  Unfortunately, it was still not a perfect soluti
on, especially in places where the population of the clans grew with each generation, while the land to support them could only remain the same. That was how the McAllisters had been forced out, their prima killed by the dastardly doings of the McDougalls. Now the McAllister clan’s prima was Caitriona, a young woman barely older than Hannah herself. Still grieving the loss of her mother and the only home she’d ever known, and with her own husband a lad quite unready to take any kind of a leadership position, Caitriona allowed her Uncle Joseph to make most of the important decisions.

  How precisely that was different from Nathan Wilcox’s brother being the official leader of his clan, Hannah wasn’t certain, and yet something seemed to tell her the situations were not the same at all. “That is interesting,” she said, since Nathan continued to watch her with that guarded expression, as though waiting for some kind of condemnation on her part. “I suppose I shall have to get used to all sorts of new things here in America.”

  To her relief, the smile returned. “Oh, yes, I think you shall. Your clan comes from Scotland?”

  “Yes.” This time, she was the one having difficulty maintaining her smile. So far they had only spoken of the sorts of commonplaces that any two people meeting in public might discuss, and she prayed that he would be discreet enough to keep their conversation on those kinds of topics. It was certainly not wise to discuss anything related to their witch clans while in public — especially a public place as crowded as R.H. Macy’s.

  He seemed to understand, for he only said, “Then I think you will find it very different here. Have you been to Central Park yet?”