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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-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.”