A Witch's Tale Read Free Page B

breakfast and be sipping his second cup of coffee.
     
    “Been living here long?” Mac asked his benefactor as they slid into a narrow booth.
    “Not long by local standards, which is all your life and a couple generations of ancestors to boot. I settled down here about five years ago. You know how it is with us newspaper junkies. I had always dreamed of owning my own weekly. Saw that The Sentinel was up for grabs, so I figured, why not?”
    Kind of a funny guy , Mac thought, quickly assessing the man who sat opposite him. He had a classy air, with his tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and perfectly creased woolen slacks. He looked like the kind of guy who would n ever trust his thick, perfectly-styled prematurely- gray hair to a mere barber.
    “How rude of me”, the man exclaimed after the waitress had brought them both steaming mugs of coffee and taken their order. “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Alan Boatwright, the editor and owner of the local rag.”
    Mac reached across the table to shake the man’s hand again. “Glad to meet you, Alan. Mac McCormick. I’m with a, uh, national tabloid.”
    “Oh, you don’t have to tell me who you are, Mac. I remember you from your days on the Washington Post . I’ll never forget when you uncovered that story about the Senator and the Mafia. Man, that’s what I call a story!”
    Mac took a sip of his coffee. The man’s obvious hero worshipping was beginning to get on his nerves. Next thing you knew the guy would be wanting to know why Mac was working on a cheesy tabloid like The Inquisitor , and that was a story he would just as soon keep to himself.
    “ What do you know about these so- called witches?” Mac asked, hoping to lead the guy back towards the story and away from himself. He brushed aside the thought that he had any special interest in the intriguing young witch, Cassie Adams. “They aren’t for real, are they?”
    “Oh, they’re for real, all right. Those little ladies take their religion very seriously.”
    “Religion? I’d hardly call witchcraft a religion,” Mac commented. “Since when did casting spells and whacking old guys become a religion?”
    “Religion is an e lusive concept, don’t you agree?”
    When Mac responded to the question with only a slight shrug, Alan continued. “As I understand it, there’s a great deal more to Wiccan, as they call it, than casting spells. And as far as ‘whacking’ Reverend Elkins, well, that hasn’t been proved yet, has it?”
    “Am I to understand that you don’t agree with that mob, and that those ladies might actually be innocent?”
    “I try to maintain an unbiased opinion, that’s all. After all, though my paper is small by comparison to the ones you’ve worked for, I am still a journalist, and as such I owe it to my readership to remain neutral.”
    “Well said, Alan, well said,” Mac toasted the older man with his coffee mug. “It’s a shame more journalists don’t adhere to your principles. But I’m interested in these women.” Mac tried to push his special interest in one gorgeous young witch in particular to the back of his mind. “Do you know any of them personally?”
    “Oh my , yes. Why, I’ve known Myra Adams from the day she moved into town two years ago. And a finer woman you’ll never find, I might add. She’s beautiful, witty, charming and utterly fascinating. And, of course, I’ve known her daughter , Cassie , for just as long. A lovely girl.”
    “But Myra Adams is a practicing witch, right? In fact, isn’t it true t hat she’s the leader of this so- called coven , w hat they call the high priestess?” Mac’s left brow lifted sardonically.
    “Oh, you know how things are. These women get their notions. Believe me when I tell you, it’s entirely self- delusional. Witchcraft! Come on, this is the twentieth century - nearly the twenty-first. We’re talking about a bunch of women who sit inside a circle of lit candles chanting rhymes. Now what harm can