by E. Latimer
Fiona blinked. It was hard to gauge her expression in the half-light, but Dayna thought she saw her smile drop, just for a second. “It was…fine. Lots of scripture readings, prayer meetings, that sort of thing.”
She gripped the strap of her shoulder bag, knuckles white. “And that’s it?”
Fiona hesitated. “I…I don’t remember.”
She was rubbing her arms faster now, and Dayna stepped farther into the kitchen, slightly alarmed. Her gaze dropped down to where Fiona’s sleeve had ridden up slightly. There was a series of shadowy bruises on her pale skin.
Dayna frowned.
There was no way it was from the reverend, unless she bruised immediately, so most likely they were from camp. An ugly suspicion had been growing since she’d first met Fiona, and it was slowly turning into something worse. A hot, toxic anger eating at her insides.
“Hey, we don’t have to talk about it. Let’s get a cup of tea, okay?”
The rubbing slowed and then stopped, and Fiona’s arms dropped to her sides. “Tea would be nice.”
Dayna flipped the kitchen light on, darting a glance at her mother. Fiona Walsh’s face was pale, and there were dark bruises under her eyes. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in weeks.
Dayna felt slightly queasy. She knew what it was like not to sleep well. But this seemed like something more.
Dayna set the kettle on the stove and stretched up to pull a pair of clay mugs from the cupboard. “What’s with the floodlight? Did Dad install it?”
“This afternoon, yes. And there’s a camera at the front now. He said I shouldn’t go outside without him, because of the murder.” Fiona lowered herself delicately into the nearest chair, folding her arms in front of her. Her body language was timid, like someone expecting a blow at any moment.
There was abuse at camp. The thought was sickening, but she was utterly sure of it. Probably all in the name of their God and helping Fiona “get better.” On top of that her father was continuing it, locking Fiona in, controlling her. Installing floodlights and cameras.
What the hell was that about? Was he expecting Fiona to try to escape or something?
Her insides were burning, anger making her chest tight. She wanted to storm down the hall and pound on her father’s door. Wake him up just to yell at him. To ask who the hell he thought he was. He wasn’t a shrink; he didn’t know how to deal with mental health problems. He was just going to do more damage.
For a moment she stayed where she was, drawing in deep breaths, trying to calm herself. The way the magic buzzed through her right now, she worried she might tear the kitchen apart without lifting a finger.
“Listen, Fiona.” Dayna paused as the kettle began to rumble, pulling it off the stove. “Are you going to be seeing Dr. Roth now that you’re home?”
Fiona nodded, glancing down as Dayna slid a mug of tea across the table to her. “Yes, your father set up an appointment for the end of the week.”
“That’s what I figured.” Dayna scowled, wrapping her hands around her mug. “Look, you’ve got to convince him to get you outside help. Dr. Roth isn’t going to be better than camp; he’s just another church lackey. Trust me, I’ve been to him before and he’s useless. You need a secular counselor, one who asks questions other than how high when Dad tells him to jump.”
There was a shuffle from the doorway, and Dayna turned to see her father standing there in his dressing gown, his brow furrowed with irritation. “Dayna, finally. I told you, I want you home by ten. There’s a killer on the loose, and you’re out running around with your friends until past midnight.” His voice was getting louder. Dayna stood up, snatching her bag off the floor.
Of course he would ruin this, just when she was getting to speak to Fiona. “We were discussing the fact that you’re saddling her with Dr. Roth. That’s not good enough.” Her anger leaked out, making her words sharp.
“Go to bed, Dayna. Tomorrow we’ll discuss you ignoring your curfew.” He glanced sharply at Fiona. “Both of you. You should be sleeping.”
Dayna took a step toward him, suddenly furious. “She’s an adult. Your wife, actually, and you’re treating her like a child.” Before he could reply she turned and marched into the hallway.
The reverend followed behind her. “Dayna, you can’t just walk away whenever you don’t like something.”
She stopped just around the corner, turning on him, keeping her voice low. “Was there abuse at camp? Is that why you pulled her out?”
“What?” The reverend looked shocked. Dayna didn’t think the expression was fake. “Why would you ask that?”
“She has bruises up her arm.” Dayna frowned at him. “You really didn’t notice?”
The reverend sighed, rubbing his eyes with a finger and thumb. “Oh, yes. Yes, I— Those are old. She fell during camp activities. Your mother bruises easily.”
“Can you not call her that?” The word rattled in her ears; it didn’t feel right. “It’s…just Fiona. Fiona is fine.”
“She is your mother.” The reverend’s expression hardened for a second, and then he just looked exhausted. “Look, she needed help, and that’s why she went to camp. But she’s okay now. Things can go back to normal.”
Normal. As if bringing this stranger into their house was going to make things normal. The lies he told himself to ease his guilt…
Dayna narrowed her eyes, watching his face. He was avoiding her eyes, she realized.
“She’ll be kept to a strict schedule here and won’t be leaving the house. Eventually, when she feels up to it, I’ll take her to church.”
“Seriously? You’re going to treat her like a prisoner? That’s your solution?”
“She’s doing so well. This is the best way to make sure she keeps up with her medication.”
“The best way is to get professional help. Not Jesus camp, and not locking her up.”
“She doesn’t need outside help. She’s fine now.” The reverend was getting that look on his face again, like he was shutting down. It made the ever-present coals in the pit of her stomach flare to life, burning her insides.
“Are you sure about that? It looks like she’s not sleeping.”
“Dayna, that’s enough.” He stepped closer, clearly frustrated. “I know you insist on questioning me at every turn, but—” He paused, and then leaned forward so quickly that Dayna took a step back, startled. “Are you drunk?”
Shit. The tea. She probably smelled like booze.
“Dayna Walsh, how dare you sully this house with—”
She was already turning, halfway down the hall toward her bedroom. “Forget it. I can’t talk to you. I’m going to bed.”
There was a thump behind her, and her father’s stern voice. “I wasn’t finished. You’re grounded for a month at least. Don’t walk away from me, Dayna.”
She jerked to a halt in the doorway, feeling her heart stutter in her chest.
The memories flooded back without warning. The long arguments with her father, she could be fixed, she could be helped.
The men in dark suits at the door, there to convince her she could be cured by the church’s camp program.
Talking turning to fighting. Dayna trying to leave the room. Her father yelling.
Don’t walk away from me.
One of the men had blocked the door, and the other grabbed her. Fingers bruising her arms, faces full of righteous anger.
She’d screamed as they dragged her down the hallway, cried out for her father. The reverend had followed, watching them drag her away. His face had been pale and strange in those few, horrible seconds, his eyes glassy. She’d screamed a second time, trying to wrench out of the suited men’s iron grasp, and her father jerked as if he’d been stung. Finally he’d called for them to stop. He’d sent them away and collapsed, trembling, into the chair at the kitchen table, hand over his mouth.
It was too late. She’d seen the blank look on his face. He’d been on the brink of turning her over. Letting them take her away.
No
w for one second, two, she stood frozen in the doorway. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many terrible, angry things.
Instead she turned and kept going, letting the bang of the bedroom door do the talking.
On the other side she paused, breathing hard.
The rush of adrenaline made the magic flare momentarily, hot and bright. Dayna staggered forward, socks sliding on the wooden floor. She gaped down at her hands.
For the moment her father was entirely forgotten.
She’d seen the other witches make things float, pencils, erasers, coins. She’d watched jealously, wishing she could access the power to do actual spells. She’d memorized the spell in preparation for this, had always known it was the first thing she’d do. But pencils and coins seemed so small compared to the sheer amount of power rushing through her.
If this was only going to last three days, like Yemi had said, then she might as well use it.
She fixed her eyes on the heavy wooden dresser beside the door and cupped her hands together, fingers woven through one another as she’d seen Yemi do. Heart thumping, she whispered, “Bogadh,” and inwardly pushed. The dresser tilted wildly on two legs and shot sideways, scraping across the hardwood floor. She grinned and then winced as it slammed into the door and wobbled onto its front legs with a bang. Everything on top crashed to the floor, spilling bottles of nail polish, aspirin, and a half dozen partially full bottles of nasal spray.
She flinched and went still, expecting footsteps on the stairs, or her father’s voice through the door.
There was nothing.
Her sense of elation returned. That had hardly taken any power, and the dresser had to weigh a ton.
She hurried over to her bed, stooping down to pull the box from underneath. Her altar was technically a stool, wooden and small enough to fit inside the boot box, but it worked. She set it up as fast as she could, lighting the candles, sprinkling a few different herbs out before sinking cross-legged onto the carpet. There were a few items she’d collected over the years, things Bronagh had told her were good to practice with: a silver spoon, a bit of cork from a wine bottle, a few coins.
Dayna wove her fingers together again, letting the electric buzz pulse through her hands and arms. A whisper, and the objects shot into the air around her, so fast she had to clamp down on the power before the cork hit the ceiling. She couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.
She added more.
A book. A jar of skin cream. A stray flip-flop.
Dayna added another book, and another, until she had over twenty objects floating around her. It was exhilarating. She was full to the brim with magic. Powerful. Untouchable. The Butcher could try to come for her coven; she was ready for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DUBH
Dubh stood at the edge of the lake facing the abbey, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans. The water was flat and mirrorlike, reflecting the abbey and its green surroundings upside down beneath the surface.
His breath rose in the air around him. He smiled, attention fixed on the abbey, on people moving back and forth across the lawn, voices carrying faintly over the water, colorful insects swarming over the green grass.
Someone had spread a picnic blanket out, and a tour group had settled in the shade of an oak, snapping pictures and unpacking food. Laughter echoed, mingling with birdcalls in the trees above.
For one serene moment, time was suspended in that cool, still reflection in the lake.
Dubh waited. The only movement was the rise and fall of his chest, though he couldn’t stop the smile that stretched over his face.
Any second now. The place was packed with tourists, it wouldn’t take long.
One minute. Two.
A scream, high and panicked, echoing across the water.
Small figures ran back and forth over the lawn. Now there was shouting, crying, shrieking.
Dubh tipped his head back and smiled at the abbey.
The noonday sun now hung directly overhead, bathing the stone walls, glittering in the windowpanes of the abbey, reflecting back on the lake, making it look like the building was on fire.
Tiny figures crowded around a spot just under the oak tree. There was a figure on the grass in the middle of the activity, still and silent and stretched out on the lawn, as if she had fallen asleep on the grass in the shade. You wouldn’t know the difference until you got closer. Until you saw the blood.
More people came running from all directions now, shouts and screams mingling, growing louder as the wind picked up and carried the noise.
Dubh’s smile grew wider.
For a moment he allowed himself to watch their frenzy. To take in the noise. To imagine one of the tiny figures turning and spotting him there across the water, a dark silhouette. Like death himself.
Then he glanced back down at the cooler.
The last two witches he’d been sure about. But now…now he wasn’t sure. He needed the book, and the list inside, and he was sure he wasn’t the only one looking by now. He had to find it before the witches did.
Dubh reached down to pick up the cooler at his feet. Turning, he walked back into the forest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SAMUEL
It was always crowded in O’Neal’s. The insides were done in dark cherrywood, with a marble-topped bar at the front that took up half the place. Mr. O’Neal, one of the church deacons, had bought the old pub years ago and turned it into a soda shop.
Sam slid into the corner booth, dropping his bag onto the table. Mrs. O’Neal waved to him from the bar, and Sam grinned. His Bible study met every Monday for breakfast during the summer, and hogged the booth for most of the morning, but the O’Neals didn’t seem to mind.
He leaned back, glancing up at the TV on the wall. The news anchor was going through the weather report. He slid the lock off his cell screen. It was a futile gesture, since he would have had a notification if Dayna had texted him. He’d half hoped she would check in for new information about the case.
Not that he had any.
He’d hung around the house earlier that morning, hoping to overhear something as his father got ready for work. The sergeant had waited in the kitchen while Sam’s mother had filled his travel mug, complaining about pushback from his force about something—how they were working the case, Sam would guess. Then his father had begun complaining about the Kellys’ farm, and how people were calling in because the new paint on the barn was an eyesore from the road. “It’s completely different colors in places, like they ran out halfway.”
To his disappointment, his father had stomped out without saying more about the case.
Sam retreated to his bedroom, grumbling to himself.
A serial killer in town, and he’s complaining about patchy barn paint….
Sam had paused at the bedroom door, frowning. Why did that jog a memory? It wasn’t as if he’d paid any attention to the paint when he’d spotted the dead cows….
He’d realized a second later and frozen in the doorway. He hadn’t been thinking of the Kellys’ barn, or even one he’d seen in real life at all. It was the barn in the video.
He’d watched it over and over this week. Something about what his father had said made it click in his brain. There was a piece he’d been missing, he was suddenly sure of it.
Sam opened the link to the video again and rewatched it, flipping his phone over to enlarge the screen. He’d played it so many times that morning that his eyes started to glaze over right away, and he shook himself, squinting at the footage. Sure enough, there was something on the wall of the barn behind the blurry figures.
There was a small part of the wall that looked somehow redder than the rest. He hunched over his phone, squinting harder. It was probably just paint that had faded, or…the fuzziness of the camera. It was probably nothing.
Unless it was something.
Whatever it was, it had been enough to imprint on his subconscious after hours of watching
the video. So maybe that made it something he should check out.
He blew out a breath and logged into his account, typing out a quick message.
Anyone see the red patches on the barn behind them?
The bell over the door jangled, and Sam jerked upright, shoving his phone into his pocket.
Morgan and her friend Amanda were the first inside, arms linked as they walked in, and Darius trailed behind them. Morgan paused just inside the door, long enough to announce, “The town is in an uproar, Samuel,” before steering her friend toward the booth.
“She’s so dramatic,” Amanda said.
Morgan slid into the seat, flinging her blond braid over her shoulder. “It’s not dramatic. There’s a murderer in town. If anything I’m not being dramatic enough.”
Sam sat up straight in the booth. “You— Who told you that?”
“People drove past the tape.” Amanda leaned forward, eyes glittering. “The question is, who was it?”
“Mam is losing her mind.” Morgan played with the end of her braid, wrapping it around her fingers. “She barely let me out of the house.”
“My parents, too.” Amanda frowned. “I had to tell them this was an emergency prayer meeting. Like, we’re going to pray away the killer.”
There was another jangle of the bell from the doorway, and a woman entered the soda shop. She had long brown hair in double braids and a round, cheerful face. She smiled and waved at Sam, bangles jingling.
“Morning, Samuel.”
“Good morning to you, Miss Margery. How’s the shop?”
“Oh, you know. Everyone drinking tea from bags these days, the heathens.” She chuckled and patted him on the cheek as she walked past, and Sam grinned.
Margery Davis had been friends with his mother years back, though they had a falling-out when Margery had been asked to leave church. Still, she used to slip him chocolates whenever she saw him, and she seemed fond enough of him.
“You have a nice day, now.”
Margery headed toward the back of the shop, where she began talking to Mrs. O’Neal. The second she was out of earshot, Amanda leaned over the table.