by E. Latimer
Reagan drove like the devil was after them, and they pulled into Dayna’s driveway five minutes later. She took a breath, steeling herself. This wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“Wait here, will you?” Dayna said, and when both women looked like they were going to protest, she said sternly, “I’ll be right back, I swear. But please, stay until I text. I’m going to talk to my dad, and this is going to be messy.”
Reagan sighed. “All right, but if you don’t text in twenty minutes, we’re coming in, spells blazing.”
Dayna grinned in spite of her churning stomach. “I believe you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CORA
It was getting dark now. The last rays of light from the sinking sun painted the boy’s face in alternating patterns of shadow and light. He was so utterly still. Cora had closed the distance between them before she realized what she was doing, driven by curiosity.
She moved around him, cautious at first, and then as he stayed rooted to the spot, she grew more confident. Trailing a hand over his shoulder, a finger along his chest. His body shuddered under her touch.
“You really can’t move, can you?”
Despite the fear that churned her stomach, a cold thrill ran through her. Finally her goddess was showing her power.
Again came that liquid sensation in the back of her mind, the presence of Caorthannach’s shifting, sliding scales. I give him to you, witchling. I grant you my power. Are you not pleased?
“Aye,” she whispered. “I’m pleased. I’ll…” She faltered, reluctant to say it.
There can be no power without sacrifice. You cannot win this war without me.
That was it. She wasn’t doing this for herself, or for Grandma King. She was doing this for her fellow witches, for a greater cause.
Cora dipped into her purse, drawing the dagger out. The box hit the grass at her feet with a soft thud, and there was a hiss from the boy. In the dusky light his eyes were frantic. His mouth twitched, as if he were trying to move his lips.
Cora clenched the dagger in one hand and reached out with the other, seizing the bottom of his T-shirt. She meant to yank it up, to expose his bare chest. Instead she curled her fingers into the fabric, snarling softly to herself. Why couldn’t she do it?
There would be more deaths if she didn’t do this. Without this, who would be strong enough to fight? What was one life in exchange for many?
Cora curled her fingers tighter, hating them for shaking. Hating herself for her cowardice.
She had to do this. Take the heart. Say the words.
This was her ascension. She’d been waiting for so long now.
If it makes it easier, the goddess hissed, and then without warning Cora was hit with a barrage of images, flashes in the back of her mind, an old-fashioned moving picture in her head.
The boy at a house party, head thrown back, laughing, a beer bottle clutched in his hand. A girl passed out in a bedroom upstairs, a single bottle on the floor, amber liquid leaching out into the carpet. The boy in the doorway. His sharp smile, the light in his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder.
The boy in the bed. On top of the girl.
And then later, beside his locker, surrounded by his friends. The laughter, a slap on the back, a punch to the shoulder.
The scene yanked Cora out of this reality and plunged her into her own past, a particular house party as a teen, a boy who’d reacted badly to the news she wasn’t interested, who’d followed her around the party until she was six beers in and swaying on her feet.
And Meiner, there suddenly out of nowhere, full of rage and vodka. Cora hadn’t been sure what happened after that; everything was fuzzy. But there’d been rumors the boy had peed blood the next day.
And if Meiner hadn’t been there?
There was the girl in the bed again, only now the hair spread across the pillow was blond, and Cora was looking straight into her own face, eyes shut, lashes flickering against her cheeks. Across the room the bedroom door clicked shut.
The images cut out, and Cora reeled back, shaking her head. She felt plunged from darkness to light too suddenly, dazzled. And angry. Filled with the kind of rage that stuck in her throat and choked her.
That made it justice, she realized. In fact…that made it easy.
And it was. Sliding the blade between his ribs was surprisingly easy.
The dagger was impossibly sharp, and her arms were strong. The only surprising thing was the noise the boy made when the dagger slipped in, a startled grunt. Cora jumped back as he slumped sideways, sagging to the ground as if someone had cut invisible bonds. He fell to the grass, and Cora took a shaky breath and rolled him over with the toe of her boot.
Her entire body was trembling, and the sky above her surged. But as she knelt beside him, wrapping her shaking hands around the golden snakes of the handle, her voice was surprisingly steady.
“I’m not sorry.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
SAMUEL
Sam stood in the middle of the half-empty parking lot, clutching his Bible to his chest. His hand kept drifting to his pocket, to his phone, and then away again. He knew if he called the gardai, it would be the sergeant responding. The sergeant who, for all his grumbling and growling, was still his da. And there was no way his da was prepared to go up against something like that. He’d be killed.
The sun was starting to sink behind the line of shops, silhouetting the peaks and edges in orange and black. Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he stepped slowly forward. Through the window of O’Neal’s he could see his Bible study in the corner booth.
Amanda and Jillian seemed to be watching Darius argue with Morgan. Darius shoveled fries into his mouth, rolling his eyes at her. Morgan was in the middle of saying something, her face earnest as she jabbed a finger at the Bible on the table in front of her. No doubt emphasizing the importance of the “emergency Bible study” she’d just called—the news had broke about Margery and the group was eager to discuss it in detail.
Sam stepped onto the walkway in front of the shop, clutching the railing with one hand. There was a pang in his chest as he glanced over at Sage Widow. The yellow tape was gone, and the lights were back on in the windows. There was a tall, thin woman moving around inside the shop, someone he didn’t recognize, and he remembered Margery’s words about the coven in town.
Witches were real. They were here in Carman. And Dayna had known all along, he was suddenly sure of it. All her questions about the Butcher made sense now.
Was everything he’d believed a lie? Or merely just an incomplete picture? He wasn’t sure how he was meant to go back to normal now. If normal was even achievable after witnessing what he had.
Sam glanced back at O’Neal’s, at his Bible study, at the brightly lit insides of the shop. Mr. O’Neal was sliding a tray of milk shakes onto the table, and he could hear muffled laughter even from here.
Through the windows of Sage Widow he could see the tall woman in front of the shelves, rearranging a display of salt lamps which glowed in the dusky insides of the store.
All his life he’d believed one thing. He’d thought that belief had been solid.
But mystery had always called to him, hadn’t it? Poking around in the dark was terrifying and thrilling, chasing the unknown was his calling.
There were always new things to discover.
Sam had covered his walls in unsolved cases, drawn in by the patterns, by the secrets. It had driven him into darker corners than he could possibly imagine, uncovered things he’d never dreamed of, but he knew now that he’d only touched the tip of the iceberg.
He wanted to know.
He took a deep breath and gently placed the Bible down on the railing. Then he turned to walk across the sidewalk and into the orange-lit glow of Sage Widow.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
MEINER
The drive back to the farmhouse was lonely.
It had made her chest feel strangely tight when Dayna decided to ride back with R
eagan, but she shouldn’t have been surprised. She hated herself for snapping like that. Someday, she’d succeed in driving everyone away, and there would be no one left at all.
Her temper was getting worse, and more disturbingly, she didn’t seem to be able to keep a lid on it anymore. And in the heat of the moment she didn’t want to. It was like itching a bite; it felt so good to give in.
She would apologize to Dayna later. She’d make it right somehow.
Right now though, she had more pressing problems. For a moment she only sat there in the driveway, the car ticking as the engine cooled. Then she reached into the bag on the passenger seat and pulled out the silver box she’d slipped into her pocket while the other witches had been intent on opening the safe.
Meiner bit the inside of her cheek, stroking a thumb over the crescent moon etched into the surface of the lid. The sight of it in the hotel room had made her chest tighten, a pang of shock passing through her.
Meiner could hardly count the number of times she’d told her grandmother to put it away, that she couldn’t smoke in restaurants and shops and people’s houses. It was rarely missing from her gran’s hand or pocket, so how did the brothers come to have it?
She cracked the box open, wrinkling her nose as the scent of tobacco hit her. The box was empty. She tried to remember when she’d seen Gran carrying this last. Days ago? A week?
The back of her neck prickled, and she pressed the lid closed firmly.
Her thoughts were spinning madly. Grandma King had been in the room, so what did that mean? That she’d somehow known where the men were and searched the room? But why leave the safe unopened? And why keep it a secret from both covens?
It didn’t make sense, which left the more obvious and horrible conclusion: she’d gone to see the brothers….
A deep breath, and Meiner pushed the driver-side door open. She was going to confront her, demand answers.
She climbed out and blinked around, surprised no one else was back. It was nearly full dark now, and the driveway was still empty. Grandma King and Cora must be home, of course, but neither Dayna and Reagan nor the Callighans had returned yet. Meiner went the rest of the way up the driveway, stopping at the first gate. She frowned.
The gate was splintered on its hinges, as if something had knocked it inward. What the hell?
There was a distant crash from the house, and Meiner jumped. A second later, white light blasted through the windows, and her heart dropped.
She could sense it now; the distinct prickle of strong magic being used. There was something off about it, too, something dark. And…there was something strange about the front of the house. Were those sigils…?
Another crash. A muffled yell from the house.
Gran.
Meiner lunged forward, running full tilt, pulse pounding in her ears. She was through the first gate, the second, the third, chanting a protection prayer as soon as her feet hit the tile in the hallway. The vestibule was in a shambles, boots and shoes strewn over the floor, and one side of the wall was blackened. There was a scream from the kitchen, and Meiner barreled in, skidding to a halt at the entrance. She stared in shock, barely registering the dull thunk as the silver box hit the floor at her feet.
Every inch of the kitchen walls was covered in bloodred symbols, scrawled in a shaky hand.
Worse still, there were three men facing off with Gran. Grandma King was backed into a corner by the sink, and when Meiner burst in, the men looked up, surprise clear on their faces. In the beat of silence that followed, Grandma King threw her hands up and let loose a vicious curse, her voice snapping out like the crack of a whip. The nearest brother was thrown back against the cupboards, his sword skittering across the tiles.
The old woman surged forward, throwing hexes, pressing the other two brothers against the wall, sending dishes and cutlery crashing out of their cupboards and drawers. Teacups and saucers shattered on the tiles, and the shards skittered across the floor, whipping up to hang ominously in the air for one beat, two, the sun glittering off the white surfaces, jagged tips pointed at the intruders. Then Grandma King flung her arms out, words cutting the air just before the shards missiled forward, embedding themselves into the walls with sharp little chunk, chunk, chunks and gouging bloody tracks across every inch of the brothers’ skin.
The man with the sword scrambled to his feet, using his blade to guard his eyes from the flying shards. He struck out toward Gran again, and Meiner began another prayer under her breath, wishing desperately she knew more. She was still a damn witchling. How was she supposed to fight this?
She snatched a heavy bowl from the counter and whipped it at him, and he grunted as it glanced off his temple, staggering backward.
“Kill that bitch, Dubh.” The brother with the buzz cut snarled at her. “Finish her—” He didn’t get anything else out, because Grandma King sent another nasty hex his way, snapping his head back.
“Meiner”—Grandma King did not take her eyes off the men—“run, witchling. Go get the others.” She threw up her hands as the long-haired brother came at her, spitting out another hex as she warded off something Meiner couldn’t see.
“I won’t leave you.” Meiner turned toward the counter, looking for something, anything to throw, and felt herself slammed backward. Her shoes slid, and she screamed, striking her shoulders and back painfully on the cupboards.
“Go, you fool.” Grandma King stepped in front of her. “You won’t last.”
“I would if you’d trained me,” she gasped out. It was a ridiculous time to bring it up, but she couldn’t seem to help it. One of the drawers came shooting out beside her, and she flinched, before reaching out to snatch up a steak knife. From her position on the floor she couldn’t help looking up at the walls, at the symbols dripping down the white wallpaper. They didn’t look like anything she’d seen before, and she felt a sick squirming in her stomach if she looked at them for too long. “But you’re making Cora head witch.”
Grandma King grunted, hand up to block another spell.
One of the men cried out as Grandma King’s magic pressed him against the far wall of the kitchen, scraping his back against the towel hooks as he was dragged up toward the ceiling. Meiner watched, eyes wide.
“You aren’t like me, child. You won’t do what needs to be done.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ll see. Tarraing forsa!” Grandma King jerked an arm up, like she was conducting an orchestra, and suddenly the shaved-headed brother was struggling to walk toward her. The air around him shimmered, turned thick.
“Cora won’t be any better.” Meiner climbed to her feet, brandishing the knife, gaze flicking from one brother to the next. Both Dubh and the shaved-headed brother were approaching again, more warily than before. Again, she glanced at the symbols on the wall, the smears of red against white. “These runes…”
“I do what needs to be done,” Grandma King repeated, and then she snapped, “Balor, glacaim mé ort!” and clapped her weathered hands together.
A metallic rasp seemed to coincide with her motion, a blade drawn from a scabbard played in stereo, and an awful, heavy weight filled the room. Meiner darted a frantic glance at her grandmother, struggled to draw a breath into her lungs, feeling gooseflesh erupt over both arms.
There was something there in the kitchen with them, something far more terrifying than the brothers. She could feel its presence, and it was strangely, horribly familiar. It reminded her of childhood, of nights spent barricaded behind the bedroom door, she and Cora barely breathing under their sheets, the darkness quiet and heavy around them.
A strangled cry jerked Meiner’s head up, just in time to see it happen.
Something rippled in front of the brothers, a shimmer in the space before them, and then a slash of light split the air. The three men staggered back. Two of them clutched at their necks, faces pale, blood inexplicably gushing between their fingers. The one in the center pivoted slightly, and the same
invisible force missed his throat, slashing his shoulder open. He screamed, face twisted in pain and rage as his brothers crumpled on either side of him.
The old woman lifted her hands again as the one with the sword charged forward. Grandma King threw another blast of light, but this time he ducked, driving his blade up.
Meiner only half saw it happen. She saw her grandmother’s body stiffen, blood running down the groove in the blade, dark and smooth. Across the room there was a thud and a groan as one of the men turned over, blood still pulsing from his neck. The man with the sword stood back, panting.
“No!” Meiner pitched forward as her grandmother slumped to the ground. When she tried to catch her the old woman pushed her off. “Run.”
She looked up, heart in her throat, as the brother with the sword approached. He was smiling, an awful expression. He seemed unaffected by the huge bloody gash running down the left side of his face. “That was easier than I thought.”
The rage hit Meiner then, molten hot and as bright as any magic. It drove her forward, sent her crashing into him. The knife clutched in her hand met resistance and then slid past, piercing the man’s chest. He screamed, his sword hitting the floor with a metallic clang, and she felt the warmth of his blood rush over her hands. Something flared to life in her chest, smoldering embers that filled her with heat to the tips of her fingers. The rage wanted more, more, more.
She reared back, about to plunge the knife in again.
“Dubh!”
One of the brothers was calling his name, and Meiner was yanked off roughly, thrown against the cupboards for the second time, striking her temple. She blinked, dazed, her head throbbing.
No, it couldn’t be either brother. They’d both been on the floor, their throats slashed by Gran’s spell. She struggled to sit up, head spinning.