Sanctuary Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!

  You are just one click away from…

  • Being the first to hear about author happenings

  • VIP deals and steals

  • Exclusive giveaways

  • Free bonus content

  • Early access to interactive activities

  • Sneak peeks at our newest titles

  Happy reading!

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2019, 2020 by Vic James Limited

  Cover and internal design © 2019, 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Nicole Hower/Sourcebooks

  Cover image © Trevor Payne/Arcangel

  Internal design by Ashley Holstrom/Sourcebooks

  Internal images © MAKSIM ANKUDA/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  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, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in 2019 in the United Kingdom by Gollancz, an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: James, V.V., author.

  Title: Sanctuary : a novel / V. V. James.

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, 2020. | Originally published in 2019 in the United Kingdom by Gollancz, an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020005118 | (trade paperback)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Occult fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6110.A493 S26 2020 | DDC 823/.92--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020005118

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  A Note on the Magical System

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Eighty-Five

  Eighty-Six

  Eighty-Seven

  Eighty-Eight

  Eighty-Nine

  Ninety

  Ninety-One

  Ninety-Two

  Ninety-Three

  Ninety-Four

  Ninety-Five

  Ninety-Six

  Ninety-Seven

  Ninety-Eight

  Ninety-Nine

  One Hundred

  One Hundred One

  One Hundred Two

  One Hundred Three

  One Hundred Four

  One Hundred Five

  One Hundred Six

  One Hundred Seven

  One Hundred Eight

  One Hundred Nine

  Reading Group Guide

  A Conversation with the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

  —Exodus 22:18, Bible, King James Version, 1611

  A Note on the Magical System

  The magical system described in Sanctuary is fictional, not contemporary Wicca or paganism. It draws on varied historical sources. Sarah Fenn’s familiar, Aira, is named after one of the Enochian angels from the Renaissance magical system of John Dee and Edward Kelley.

  The Western European–derived Old Work practiced by Sarah Fenn represents only one strand of the many magical traditions existing in the contemporary United States of this novel. “Magic” as depicted in Sanctuary is never to be equated with any real cultural, spiritual, or religious practice.

  One

  Harper

  Our moms were drinking champagne when Daniel died. Sipping on bubbles as Beatriz screamed outside the burning party house and I was loaded into an ambulance.

  Just before the first fire truck roared past where they sat, the four of them raised a toast, Mom told me. They lifted their glasses and drank to our futures. They congratulated themselves that despite us kids having our “differences”—and the four of them having “differences,” too—we’d come through everything. The bad days were behind us, and our friendships and theirs were stronger than ever.

  Lies, lies, lies. And they all knew it.

  Two

  Sarah

  “Here’s to our kids finally becoming adults,” Bridget says. “Well, your three, anyway. Here’s to Harper, Beatriz, and Daniel. A few weeks to graduation, then a long summer and bright futures ahead of them.”

  Our hostess pushes aside her plate and leans forward to refill our
glasses.

  I say “refill.” Bridget only poured the champagne a few minutes ago, so the rest of us have barely made a start. Her own glass is already empty, though. As are the three wine bottles that stand amid the remains of our dinner party.

  Dear Bridge does like a drink. And tomorrow she’ll complain that the hangover potion I brew her isn’t strong enough. But then, I’m a witch, not a miracle worker.

  Well, except that one time.

  That time the four of us sat around this very table on a warm spring night, as the salt breeze blew in off Long Island Sound. An evening a lot like tonight.

  “Our kids,” I say, raising my glass so I can take a swig and ward off unwelcome memories. “Julia, congratulations on Bea getting into the political science prelaw program. And Abigail, for Dan’s football scholarship. You’ve both got stars in the making.”

  Abigail radiates maternal pride. She lights up at the mere mention of her son’s name. Always has.

  “And to you, Sarah,” chimes in Julia. “For Harper…”

  She trails off, flustered. There’s no scholarship or degree course waiting for my daughter this fall. Harper hasn’t applied. After all, witches’ children don’t usually go to college. They begin apprenticeships. Harper doesn’t have one of those lined up either, for reasons of which my friends are perfectly aware.

  Abigail, a veteran of awkward moments at the endless Yale faculty parties and sports socials she attends with her menfolk, leans in smoothly.

  “Sarah, congratulations on all the opportunities ahead for Harper,” she purrs.

  “Exactly what I wanted to say.” Julia seizes the lifeline she’s been thrown. “Exciting times for all our kids.”

  “Well, they’re out partying,” says Bridget, brandishing the bottle. “So why aren’t we?”

  She pours yet again, so eagerly that the champagne foams over our fingers. We all laugh, and lick our sticky hands, and smile at each other.

  I’m proud of these women—these friends of mine. It hasn’t always been easy. I’ve kept secrets in order to keep the peace. I’ve done rather more than that. But we’ve held it together and stayed united despite temporary differences. Despite the breakups and makeups among our kids.

  A shadow falls across the light streaming through the French doors. It’s Cheryl, hovering like she always does when the four of us gather at her house. Cheryl may be Bridget’s wife, but when she sees us, she doesn’t see a coven meeting to practice. Only a group of women to which she should be admitted.

  Cheryl’s convinced she’s not welcome because she’s religious. That’s partly true—God and witchcraft rarely mix. But the main reason is that she wasn’t there that night.

  “How was supper?” she asks, coming to stand behind Bridget. “It smelled delicious.”

  “You never tried my seafood risotto?” Bridget swivels and takes her wife’s hand, her butt nearly slipping off the chair. “I put some on the counter for you, honey.”

  “It’s far too late to be eating. It’s past eleven, you know.”

  Whatever Bridge says in response is lost in the swoop and howl of a fire truck racing by. Then another. Then an ambulance. Flashes of blue briefly light up the side of the house as the vehicles tear down Shore Road.

  Cheryl tuts. “They’ll wake Izzy.”

  She fusses over Bridget’s daughter as much as Bridge does. Izzy’s not at the party tonight, supposedly because she’s ill and went to bed early. I suspect the truth is simpler—either she wasn’t invited or she didn’t feel welcome.

  Izzy keeps her head down. She struggled when her parents separated. And once the town found out that her mom’s new partner was a woman? Well, we may be close to Yale, but Sanctuary’s not as liberal as it likes to imagine. That the woman in question was the school principal was the kiss of death for Izzy’s chances of fitting in at Sanctuary High.

  Harper used to come home covered in bruises from getting into fights sticking up for her. It nearly split up Bridget and Cheryl, because Cheryl knew that if she came down too hard on the kids responsible, it’d only make things worse. Eventually—and with some “help” from me—the bullies got bored and moved on to the next target. Izzy still feels safest inside her shell, though.

  Cheryl lingers, her hands fretfully picking up and putting down the objects that lie among our plates and dishes: a bundle of twigs wrapped in red yarn, a candle, silver wire twisted into shapes that aren’t quite abstract, aren’t quite human. Bridget watches her unhappily, and across the table Abigail leans forward, all faculty-wife charm.

  “You must be so busy with the end of semester, Cheryl. All us parents are so grateful for everything you do. I saw what looked like a stack of paperwork on your kitchen table…”

  Julia smiles at Abigail’s transparency, but it’s gotten all of us out of an awkward moment, one time or another.

  A phone shrills inside the house. Cheryl gathers the empty wine bottles with a martyred expression and goes to answer.

  “Probably a student prank call,” says Bridget, with a roll of her eyes. “We have to change the number every damn month. Or maybe junkies have tried to break into the school labs again. Goodness knows what they think is stored in there. It’s not like the kids get extra credit for cooking meth.”

  I snort into my glass.

  “Fuck, no,” says a loud voice inside. Unbelievably, it’s Cheryl.

  “Are you certain? Yes, I can do that. Fuck.”

  Cheryl blushes when she says shoot. What is this? Has someone burned down the school? Is that where the fire engines were going? Bridget stands unsteadily, to go to her wife.

  She’s saved from the more difficult task of walking, because Cheryl rushes in. I thought she was pissed off, but it’s worse than that. She’s utterly distraught, and at the sight of her, something tightens in my chest.

  “There’s been an accident,” she says. “A fire. At the party.”

  The party?

  Julia, Abigail, and I all duck under the table to grab our phones from our purses. We always put them away when the four of us meet. I thumb the screen, and it lights up with messages from Harper. One after another. Too many to read, too fast to follow.

  Call me Mom, says one. Something awful’s happened.

  Beside me, Julia lets out a low moan as she scans her phone. Abigail has hers in a death grip. There are no notifications on its screen.

  I swipe to Harper’s next message.

  They’re taking me to the hospital but don’t worry im ok

  None of u are answering!!!! Told cops ur all together at izzys. Theyre gonna call now

  And finally: It’s Dan

  My throat closes up as I read what follows, but Cheryl’s already saying it. Speaking the words I wouldn’t be able to force out. Words that I never, ever imagined I’d hear a second time in my life.

  “It’s Daniel.” Cheryl is looking anywhere but at the four of us. “He’s dead. Oh, I’m so sorry, Abigail. He’s dead.”

  Three

  Maggie

  Kids. A party. Underage boozing. A tragedy.

  Sadly, I see it more regularly than my spin class sees me.

  Usually, it involves a car. A decade of mom and pop’s payments into a college fund, years of nailing a GPA, sporting achievements, carefully crafted do-goodery—all crunching into a tree at 120 miles per hour on an unlit stretch of highway.

  Sanctuary has everything that story requires. I’d forgotten how swanky this town is. As I turn down yet another hushed suburban street, I sweep the trash on the seat beside me into the passenger footwell so no one will spot it. Sanctuary’s the sort of place that’s good at making you feel not good enough.

  The houses are set so far back from the road that you can’t hardly see them through the trees. The yards are so wide you won’t hear your neighbor’s gardener on the riding mower. Pulled up in every driv
eway is a showroom’s worth of vehicles: one for each family member, and a sports car for the weekend.

  I’m Hartford born and bred, and when I was assigned down here for my first rotation, fresh out of Connecticut Police Academy, it felt like I’d moved abroad. People talk different, look different—even the air is different. Saltier. Fresher. More expensive.

  I open my window to let it in as I turn down Shore Road. The afternoon sun spangles the ocean and bounces off the sand, and my eyes narrow against the glare. A track leads off to the sports club that I remember is a favorite teen hangout. The kids here don’t know how lucky they are.

  Except now tragedy has found its way among them. I glance at the file on the seat beside me. An automatic referral to us at state level on account of the age of the deceased. Flags for potential other felonies and misdemeanors include arson, drugs, and underage drinking.

  “You did some time in Sanctuary, right?” my boss had said, barely looking up as he tossed the file across his desk. “Fire at a house party. One kid dead. Others injured, though nothing too serious. Wrap it up neat with a bow on top, and we’ll see you back here in a week.”

  The air through the window has changed. All soot and smoke now, instead of salt. And there in front of me is the house, Sailaway Villa. It’s a fire-gutted shell, roof gone but the facade curiously intact, as if the blaze started in the middle and had burned itself out by the time it reached the walls.

  A uniformed deputy is refastening a perimeter of fluttering crime-scene tape while a colleague watches. All around is a churn of mud, where emergency vehicles went to and fro and fire trucks hosed the place down. My shoes sink into it as I get out of the car.

  The spectating cop hurries across, waving his arms, until I flip my badge.

  “You’re the detective?” he says skeptically.

  Maybe this asshole has never seen a black lady detective before? Though he’s missing out on some great TV shows if that’s so.

  “Detective Knight?” calls his companion, tying off the tape and coming over. “Chief had me prepare this for you. All the kids that were here.”

  He hands me a list of partygoers, and I wince at how long it is.

  “Pretty much the entire senior class of Sanctuary High,” Helpful Cop explains. “Plus girls from the private school outside town and football boys from across the county. From that mix, it looks like Dan put the word out—he was a star athlete and a popular guy.”