The Witch Hunter

  The Witch Hunter

  A Novel

  Candace Adams

  Copyright © 2020 by Candace Adams

  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, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my friends and family that put up with me being a hermit while this book came into being. Especially Angel Van Dam who made sure my story was awesome, Krystyna Williams and Brittany Scholz who painstakingly picked out every spelling error they could find. Also to Harper Jameson, the designer of my beautiful cover. I couldn’t have done it without you all.

  Chapter One

  Taryn's Lecture

  The woman standing at the podium had the attention of everyone in the room. The sensible black pencil skirt and navy-blue ruffled blouse she had painstakingly chosen for this evening hugged every curve of her body. She had bought short black heels, and wore them without hose, and she hoped she hadn't over done it. Dressing for an occasion had never been her strong suit. She had her long brown hair piled loosely in a bun on the back of her head, with a few stray tendrils that refused to be tamed. Black rimmed reading glasses framed her oval face. She didn’t need make-up and didn’t care to take the time to apply it. That was time better spent on important things like coffee, or internet research. She tapped the mic with two fingers, checking to see if it was on, the speakers at every corner of the hall echoed her finger taps in response. Hawthorne hall had beautiful, vaulted ceilings. It had been renovated recently, and the smells of fresh paint and saw dust still lingered. Light blue walls complemented the grey planks that covered the floor.

  She had dreamed of speaking here from the time she was a child when her father would talk about the lectures he had given there during his time as an educator. She devoured every book she could find on historical events and cultures.

  Other children her age cared more about playing outside, dressing and undressing Barbie dolls, and video games. However, she knew she was destined for something more. She was an old soul, at least that’s what her family called her. She always thought it was just a polite way of saying she was weird, without directly saying it. It didn’t bother her, though. By the time she started high school, there wasn’t anything in her history book she couldn’t elaborate on. Her teachers adored her, her classmates ignored her, and she couldn’t be bothered with either.

  Her parents had been thrilled when she was accepted to Harvard on a history scholarship. They were equally as shocked when, after a year, she chose to take a break from school to travel to the places she had been reading about all her life. Once she stepped off the plane in the London Southend Airport, she felt like she was home. All the other places she intended to see while overseas fell to the wayside. Coming from Boston, she grew up with tales of the Salem witches and it had interested her since she was a child. She ended up spending the entire year in Essex researching and documenting anything she could find pertaining to the infamous witch trials. Especially anything on Matthew Hopkins, the Witch Hunter General himself. Having just returned to the states a month prior, this evening would be the culmination of everything she had learned there.

  It was really her former professor, Dr. Chandler, head of the history department, that made it possible for her to speak here. He always got his way. He had kept in touch by email for the duration of her trip and was truly enthralled with her work. When she returned, he called her, inviting her to give a lecture on the research she had been sharing with him, much to her surprise. These positions were typically reserved for seasoned speakers with years of academic experience. This didn’t seem to dissuade people from wanting to hear what she had to say, though. She accepted the honor and spent the next few weeks piecing together her thoughts on paper, hoping she wouldn’t come across as a bore.

  This was her first public speaking event and tickets had sold out almost immediately. All two hundred seats had filled in less than two days. Students, desperate to attend, had pestered the faculty, hoping that more tickets would become available. The university had not anticipated how much interest the topic would generate. Now, all eyes were on the pretty young woman as she took a sip of water. This was sure to be an interesting evening, indeed.

  A woman with big green eyes entered the hall and a man in the front row offered his seat up to her. One of the best seats in the house, it was in the center of the row directly before the podium. She accepted the seat, and folded her long, well-manicured hands in her lap and crossed her ankles with elegance.

  A few men glanced in the woman's direction, appreciating her beauty. She was a bit short but made up for her lack of height with thick five-inch, black, thigh-high boots, over skin-tight dark denim jeans. These were paired with an earthy, orange peasant blouse tied together in the front showing a generous amount of cleavage. A black leather choker rested against her slender throat. Her lips were painted blood red and the black kohl around her eyes accentuated the alluring, green pools of her irises. She waited, patiently, for the room to settle and the lecture to begin. Taryn noticed her immediately. Something in the startling beauties demeanor was predatory, and her gaze left Taryn unsettled.

  Pulling her eyes off the red-haired beauty, she cleared her throat and a small smile tugged on the corners of her mouth. There were so many people. The hall was full, some attendees even packed around the outer edges, wherever they could find space.

  The lights were dimmed, and a spotlight trained on her. A large white screen dropped down behind her for her accompanying powerpoint and she looked down at her hands. The low voices died off when they noticed she was ready to speak.

  The dark, cherry wood podium was one of the only things in the hall that hadn’t been renovated and she was struck with awe that she was touching the same material that so many great historians had touched. It both overwhelmed and elated her to know that she had earned this. Her hand-written note cards were stacked carefully beside her water bottle, but she left them there. She had taken great care over the previous weeks to memorize the words she wanted to say.

  She took a deep breath. “Well, here goes nothing,” she mumbled to herself.

  “Good evening everyone. My name is Taryn Guthry, welcome to my lecture on the sixteenth century inquisition.”

  Chapter Two

  Taryn

  Two hours. I had spoken for two, freaking hours and no one had booed me off the stage or thrown rotten fruit at me. Hell, for that
matter, no one had gotten up and left. Thank you, Jesus. I expected the questions being thrown at me now and it made me happy because it meant that people were listening.

  “Miss Guthry, you say that the Witch Hunter General was a victim of his time, but he was almost solely responsible for the deaths of over 300 men and women. How can you think that he was a victim at all?” A middle-aged man, gripping his notepad and pen, questioned.

  I thought about his question. “Well I suppose what I meant was, he was predisposed to believe that witches were real, and evil because during those times anything out of the ordinary would be categorized as evil. He was a bit more vocal about it, but what he believed wasn’t far off from what the rest of the country believed.” In all my research of the witch trials during the inquisition I kept coming back to Matthew Hopkins. I truly believed he thought he was doing everything he could to eliminate what the Church had taught him was evil. I had heard all the terrible stories of the appalling things the Witch Hunter General had done, but how much was really fact, and how much was fabricated to make an already disturbing story more interesting?

  Another man stood up in one of the back rows. “You don’t think the large amount of gold he was being paid to find so called witches and warlocks had anything to do with his choices then?” he asked, returning to his seat.

  “I believe he felt it was a just reward for doing a good job.”

  “Do you think it was a just reward?” The woman that spoke without standing, her face devoid of any expression. “Do you think the atrocities that he committed were so easily explained away by the time period?” I had noticed her while I delivered my lecture. She hadn’t been surprised or revolted by any of the torture I gave account of. While everyone around her would gasp in shock or put their hands to their faces in disbelief, she sat stock-still, watching me. It was a little unnerving.

  “I don’t understand what you mean by that.” I responded, removing my reading glasses and placing them upon the podium so I could see the audience better.

  “Do you think he deserved the money he received to destroy so many lives?”

  She posed her question as if she was directly affected by his decisions and I didn’t understand why she was taking such offense. She raised one brow daring me to respond with her rigid glare.

  “I think that if you do a job, even if it’s not a happy one, you should get paid for it. If not, the people at the DMV wouldn’t get a paycheck.” Subdued laughter around the hall.

  She tucked a tendril of red hair behind one ear.

  “Miss Guthry, I hardly think that a man who caused over three-hundred people to face drowning, burning, and other torture can be compared to having to stand in line for a few hours.”

  I felt heat in my cheeks. Who was this woman? I had certainly never seen her before.

  “Good evening to you, Miss Guthry,” she said, standing to leave. “I hope we meet again.”

  Other audience members moved their feet, allowing her to pass them as she walked out, done with our debate. Eyes trailed after her as she walked out the door and shut it loudly behind her. I took a drink from my water bottle. The faces looking back at me from the crowd appeared confused. I was too. What the heck just happened?

  “Does anyone else have questions?” I asked.

  A young woman stood up timidly. Keeping her eyes to the floor, she cleared her throat nervously before speaking. “Do you believe the people accused were really witches? I know you said that it was a matter of hysteria but were any of them the real thing?” A few people giggled and she sat down quickly.

  I gave her my warmest smile. “I do not believe true witches exist like the ones in stories. I don’t think we’ll ever see an old woman riding a broomstick or see anyone turned into a toad. Witchcraft is still practiced today much the same as it would have been back then. There is a lot of evidence that women who healed people with roots and spices were regarded as witches when really, they were more akin to early doctors. But I don’t think anyone was casting spells, putting curses on one another, or communing with the devil. Does that answer your question?” I asked.

  She quickly stood up again, responding, “yes, thank you,” and then sat back down.

  “Any more questions?” I asked. I was ready for it to be over.

  I hoped no one else would stand up and no one did. I exhaled a little breath of relief and put on my best smile.

  “Okay, well, thank you all for coming out tonight. It has been a real pleasure. I hope you all enjoyed it and maybe learned something.” I put my glasses back on top of my head and picked up my stack of cards that I hadn’t touched throughout the lecture.

  Whoever oversaw the lights, brought them up, illuminating the hall, and cut the spotlight that had been fixed on me. The white screen behind me started to rise back into the ceiling and I flicked the switch to turn the microphone off. The attendees began to shuffle out of the doors on either side of the auditorium, while I walked off the stage to the back room where I had left my jacket and purse.

  Professor Chandler was waiting for me as I stepped through the doorway. He had watched everything from just off stage with a father-like grin on his face.

  “You were awesome, Taryn!” He threw an arm around me. “I knew you would do great.”

  “Thank you,” I replied to my mentor meaningfully. I looked him in the eyes. “Wasn’t that woman bizarre, though?”

  “What woman?”

  How had he missed her? I still had goosebumps from our exchange.

  I gestured to the stage. “The one that seemed overly pissed off that I didn’t think Matthew Hopkins was just an evil son-of-a-bitch. You would have thought he had personally done something to her the way she was carrying on.”

  He laughed and looked up at the ceiling. “There’s something about lectures on witches or anything supernatural, for that matter, that tend to bring out the weirdos. You’re lucky there was only one out there tonight.”

  I relaxed slightly, reassured. I resolved to put her out of my mind and ride out the feeling of euphoria from my first successful lecture.

  “Let’s go get some steaks and celebrate, huh?”

  That sounded fantastic to me. All I had eaten today was my customary small iced coffee from Dunkin Donuts. I hadn’t been able to even think about eating or drinking anything else all day. My stomach had been in knots and the last thing I wanted to do was throw up.

  “Do you mind if I invite Sam?” I asked.

  As my best friend, she had been dying to attend my lecture, but since she was not a student, she was not allowed to come even after I begged. Apparently, Harvard doesn’t give best friend perks. I hadn’t checked my phone yet, but I bet she was already blowing it up.

  Sam and I had been friends since elementary school. My mother worked with her mother and we were often shuffled from her house to my house and back, depending on their work schedules. But that made it easy to sneak out of our houses during our teenage years, because our parents just assumed that we were at the other house. Our friendship was cemented in our senior year of high school when Sam’s parents divorced and her father moved back to his home state of California, leaving Sam and her mom in New Hampshire to make it on their own. Shortly after that, Sam’s mom was tragically hit and killed in a car accident. Her father tried to get her to go live with him, but after his disappearing act, she wanted no part of that and moved in with my parents and me. They treated her as if she were their own, and we became more sisters than friends. She never seemed to mind that I was always attached to a book and didn’t share her love of fashion, make-up, and parties. I was always there when she came home, and we would talk all night sometimes about what she had been doing.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” he smirked again. “I bet she’s chomping at the bit to know how it went!”

  “I’m scared to look at my phone,” I laughed.

  A series of muffled buzzes emanated from my handbag demanding my attention. “That’s probably her now.”

  “
Well, you better answer her. Roadhouse or Longhorn?” he asked.

  “Roadhouse rolls sound awesome, but that place is way too loud. I’m thinking Longhorn.” The buzzing continued from my impatient best friend.

  “Longhorn it is. Meet you there?” His eyebrows rose like they always did when he asked a question. He was older than me, but our love of books and history had cemented our friendship.

  “You bet.”

  He stepped out the side door as I waved goodbye. The door made a soft clicking sound behind him as it shut. My phone started ringing again. I looked at the screen and saw ‘sister’ illuminated on its face. I smiled to myself. Right on time, Sam.

  “Hey best friend!”

  “Oh my God! Taryn! How did it go? You knocked them dead right?”

  “Totally bombed it. No one showed up. Sat by myself for hours,” I smiled waiting for her to completely lose it.

  Sam fell dead silent. I dug my car keys out of my purse and headed for the door professor Chandler had exited moments before. My jeep was parked outside in the VIP parking.

  “Sam?”

  “You’re joking right?” Her voice was low and disbelieving.

  I laughed, her seriousness was so predictable. “Yes, I’m kidding!” I clicked the key fob and unlocked my door. “There wasn’t a single empty chair.”