by V. V. James
“The governor will be down our necks, Mags. Your job’s on the line here. And you know what? Mine is, too.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t avert that particular calamity by throwing this to the feds right now. It’s a wet dream for the asshole who heads the New Haven field office. He’ll hardly sleep, he’ll be so excited about executing a witch.”
“That’s exactly why,” I yell, before reining myself in. “Jeez, Remy. You know what the law’s like, how biased it is against witches—presumption of use of witchcraft, penalty uplifts, all that fun stuff.”
“Since when did you care about witches, Maggie?”
“Since when did you not care about justice, Remy?”
“Fuck you, Detective Knight.”
But he says it like the Remy I know. Like the Remy who could have gone to law school, or Wall Street, and earned a salary ten times what he gets at state police HQ. Yet because he cares passionately about justice, and because he’s a brown man and a gay man and he knows what it’s like not to have authority on your side, he went into policing instead.
“Look,” I tell him, “this town is a crock of shit soup that’s been bubbling away for years. There’s a whole bunch of interconnected families—not just the Whitmans and the Fenns, but others. Sarah Fenn has a coven, and the dead boy’s mother was part of it. There’s also a sex tape that got shown at the party that night. Gossip and teenage hostilities. You name it.”
“A sex tape? Gossip? I thought this was a witchcraft-homicide case, not fucking Sweet Valley High.”
“I’m pretty sure there weren’t any sex tapes on Sweet Valley High, sir.”
Remy snorts. “I missed a few episodes. But this tape? You didn’t mention it before.”
“I wasn’t sure if it was relevant before. No copy has turned up yet, just a screenshot that shows the deceased and the accused. When it got posted, online there was a caption that accused Fenn, the witch’s daughter, of being ‘a slut and worse.’”
“And worse? What’s she like, this witch girl? What did she say happened that evening?”
“I haven’t formally interviewed her yet, sir. We had a short conversation when she was discharged from the hospital.”
“Hey, you hear that bouncing sound, Mags?” Remy cocks his head to one side. “That’s a ball dropping. Why haven’t you interviewed her?”
“Believe me, I’ve tried. But she’s been spending time outside Sanctuary—understandably enough.”
“Flight risk?” Remy barks.
“I don’t get that impression. The mother implied it was normal behavior. But yeah, she’s not been easy to track down. There’s plenty else I need, too. Because at the moment this whole so-called murder case is a ‘he said, she said’ scenario. All I’ve got to suggest she did it is the testimony of the deceased’s best friend, who is also the source of the video of her allegedly using magic…”
“…and also the chief’s son, right? Yeah. He makes his allegations. She denies them. Not fruitful. And interviewing her creates a supposition of guilt that it wouldn’t be healthy to encourage in the current climate.”
“Exactly. I thought it would be best to wait for the MI’s assessment. If they tell me there’s no magic at the house and all she’s doing is waving her hands around because she’s furious someone’s showing a sex tape, then it becomes a completely different sort of interview.”
“Gotcha. So get the MI out to that house the minute the twigs of their fucking broomstick scratch Connecticut soil. Then as soon as you know what you’re dealing with, interview the girl. When we know there’s no magic, that interview is just a formality: What was the deceased’s mental state? Was he real sad when you broke up? Et cetera. If you want to get the mother to agree with minimal fuss to a case closure on accidental death, the hint that the alternative is a ruling of suicide could help clarify her options.”
Shit. It’s a good thing I know from the Downes case that Lt. Remy Lamarr has a heart, because otherwise you might think that all there is inside that fancy suit jacket is an expensive shirt and a rib cage containing a tiny shard of ice.
“I need you to trust me, sir,” I say. “I can get this done and give these people the truth about their kids. It’s why we do this job, right?”
My boss opens his mouth, then closes it. And my heart’s in my throat because up till this moment, when Remy could still yank me off the case, I hadn’t realized just how invested I’ve become. I’m practically holding my breath when he finally speaks.
“Well, you keep pursuing truth and justice, Mags. Personally, I’m just here to pay my husband’s tab at Brooks Brothers and keep my son in organic diapers. I’ll monitor the media and want an update the minute your MI’s done their woo-woo.”
Remy waggles his fingers mystically in a way that’d guarantee disciplinary action if anyone saw. Then with a swirl of his trench coat around the door, he’s gone.
And I’m back in business.
Forty-Five
Maggie
New day. New start. And hopefully, the beginning of the end for our case as Chester’s car pulls up at Sailaway Villa with a witch inside. He’s collected our magical investigator from the airport.
If Rowan’s website photo was striking, then in person they have the impact of a meteor hit. Chester’s wide eyes suggest he’s ground zero. I’ve never seen that witchy megawattage at close quarters before. Does Sarah Fenn dampen hers down, or is she simply not as powerful?
As we shake hands, Rowan’s grasp feels unusually firm, and I glance down. Each finger is bound in coils. Most are metal, but one is sheathed in a spiral of what looks like bone or horn, which I realize is the inner whorl of a shell. Prickles run along my spine just looking at them.
I point out details of the burned shell of the house, and the witch’s piercing gaze takes it all in.
“It’s alleged that a crime was committed here,” I tell them. “We need to know whether magic was used, and if there is any emotional imprint that might be a clue to intent or motive.”
“Understood. Before we begin, I need to perform a rite of readiness. I’ll of course conduct the assessment using Moot-recognized magical procedures, but I prefer to prepare according to my tribe’s traditions. So if you could wait in your vehicle.” It’s not a question. “And turn it away from the house. My craft isn’t for the eyes of outsiders.”
The witch slips the strap of a satchel over their head and kneels to unpack it.
“I’ve found Rowan accommodations outside town,” he says, “so there’s no risk of them seeing any of Varley’s articles about our case—or of Varley seeing Rowan.”
“Good thinking, Batman.”
But there’s something uneasy in my sergeant’s eyes.
“What’s eating you, Chester? The magic? The fact that this case involves families you’ve known your entire life?”
“Both, I guess,” he says. “I thought I knew what magic is—it’s the small stuff. My gran goes to Sarah Fenn all the time and swears by her. And I thought I knew these people, too. Dan Whitman’s kind of a local star, and his dad’s a really important guy. But this case is changing everything.”
“I understand,” I tell him. “But that’s what this job is. We see stuff that shakes us and confuses us, and it’s our job to break it down into something that makes sense and that a jury will recognize as truth.”
Chester’s nod nearly turns into a head butt of the car roof when there’s a rap at the window.
Rowan is ready.
They’re carrying two sticks cinched with an iron ring. One half is bound by corded leather to form a handle. We duck under the incident tape, and the unbound prongs twitch in Rowan’s hands as we enter the villa. Our feet scuff deep ash and crunch the grit beneath.
Then our investigator moans, sharp and anguished.
“Rowan?”
Chester is next to the witch, s
upporting their elbow. Rowan’s breathing rattles, and they lean on my sergeant a moment.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“This is…” Rowan wipes their forehead. “This is intense.”
“Are you happy to continue?”
Their full mouth twists. “‘Happy’ isn’t the word I’d use.”
Like a nervous new mom taking her kid to the adventure playground for the first time, Chester’s eyes never leave Rowan. The witch’s breath is coming hard.
And I’m getting a bad feeling about this. Because though I’m no expert, I’m guessing this isn’t Rowan’s reaction to normal, non-magically-fucked-up places.
“Are you able to tell us what you’re experiencing,” I ask, “or would you prefer us to remain silent?”
“I… This… Right now I’m feeling the presence of all these kids. Adolescent emotion is so strong and chaotic. But there’s something else, too.”
“Magic?”
“Anger. And fear.”
Fear. The fear of kids seeing their friend die in the middle of a party, in a crowded house that caught on fire? Maybe Dan’s fear as he fell—or as he realized someone at the party wished him harm? Perhaps the fear of someone coming here to murder Daniel—afraid of what they were about to do and of being found out.
As we move into the atrium, the wood of Rowan’s sticks starts to thrum. It’s so like a tuning fork that I expect at any moment to hear an eerie note. The silence is somehow even more unnerving.
There is a force at work that I can neither see, nor hear, nor feel. It’s like blindman’s bluff, which I refused to play as a child. I always felt queasy at the thought of stumbling around unseeing, arms stretched out for people who could be within your reach if only you knew. Or—somehow worse—be nowhere nearby.
Chester raises a hand, and I glance over. He points to the ash carpeting the floor. It’s swirling, as though birthing a dust devil. Rowan’s eyes are fixed ahead. They haven’t seen it.
Which is riskier? To interrupt the witch, or not do so?
Rowan advances. Half a foot, then another. And again, until they’re standing in what the photographs tell me (though I’ve never told Rowan) is the exact spot where Daniel fell.
“It is,” Rowan says softly. “It definitely is.”
“Is what?” I whisper.
The writhing dust gives me the answer. Magic. Just as it appears to coalesce into a definite form, it dissolves again. As I watch, something like revulsion rises in me. It’s as if an invisible hand is inscribing in the air every cruel and hurtful word I’ve ever had hurled at me.
“Oh,” breathes Rowan, in a tone close to wonder.
They’re watching the shifting dust as if they’ve never seen anything like it, and I catch the moment their expression turns from wonder to horror. With one rapid movement, they tuck their sticks away and raise their hands, moving them with practiced fluidity.
Then the witch freezes their gestures and utters a sound that’s unmistakably a command.
I expect the dust to obey. To hang midair in some telltale shape. But it doesn’t.
It explodes. I drop to my knees, choking and blinded, hands shielding my eyes. I feel my eardrums pop—from pressure, not sound.
In front of me, Rowan hits the floor.
Forty-Six
Sarah
Journalists get to work early. The first knock on my door is at eight in the morning.
“Sarah Fenn? I’m Anna Dao from WCON-TV. Sorry to stop by so early, but I reckon it’ll be a busy day for you after that piece in the Sentinel. Can I come in?”
She’s caught me off guard. I stare at the reporter, taking in the sprayed and backcombed hair, the camera-ready makeup. If I turn her away, will she stand on my lawn and repeat the lies that have already been printed about us?
“Ms. Fenn?” the reporter coos sympathetically.
But I can see something at work behind her eyes that isn’t at all soft sympathy.
Which is when I hear Harper on the stairs behind me, and Dao practically leaps into the air to look over my shoulder for a better view.
“Miss Fenn? I was just having a word with your mom. Do come and join us.”
I pull the door closer, narrowing the reporter’s field of view. But it’s too late. I feel Harper at my back.
Dao turns to gesture frantically across the street, where a white van emblazoned with the WCON-TV channel logo is parked. “Brett!” she yells, and a man in jeans who was leaning against the vehicle drops the cigarette he’s been smoking and slams open the van side. He emerges with a camera, a huge one, which he swings onto his shoulder, one hand already fiddling with its dozens of buttons.
“Harper,” says Dao, that sympathetic face turned back toward us, “how do you feel about these shocking allegations that have been made against you?”
The cameraman is jogging toward us.
My daughter looks as if she’s considering saying something. But there’s nothing that’d be a good idea right now. So I slam the door, then flip the dead bolt and slide across the chain.
Dao is calling from the other side.
“Ms. Fenn? Harper? We’d love to help you tell your side of the story.”
“Please leave,” I say as loudly as I can. “Please respect our right to privacy.”
“We’ll be right here if you want us.”
Something scrabbles at the bottom of the door, and a moment later, two business cards are pushed under. I look at them, lying there, knowing that this is only the beginning. Harper stoops to pick one up and shows me.
“She’s eager.” Next to her phone number, the reporter has scrawled Call me!
How can I secure our home and protect our privacy?
Harper is reaching for the lock, and I think she’s got the same idea, but then I realize she’s trying to open it. Which is when I register that she’s wearing her running gear. The leggings and long-sleeved T-shirt that protect her skin from the sun. I slap my hand down to hold the door closed.
“You have to be joking. They’ll be all over you.”
“I’m not under house arrest yet, Mom.”
And she’s right. My free spirit. I can’t let them cage her. Not in here, and not in a jail cell.
Not when she’s the one who’s been victimized, by Dan Whitman.
My daughter was raped. My daughter is falsely accused of murder. Those two unbearable facts stole my sleep last night.
To keep my girl safe, I need Abigail to state that she doesn’t think Harper was responsible for Dan’s death, and I need her to get Jake Bolt to withdraw his accusation. She told me that bringing her son back was the price for that. But it’s impossible. Dan’s body is charred and cold.
And now this. Abigail won’t cooperate if I tell her what her son did to my daughter. It’ll burn the last bridge between us. So, keeping Harper safe means accepting that she’ll never get justice for what Dan did to her.
And that hurts.
There are alternatives. I’m more certain than ever that what happened during my divination—that exploded bowl—is the answer to how Daniel died. That magic itself killed Dan. Death reclaimed the boy I snatched from it six years ago.
So I could come clean. Go public with how I brought Dan back that night, and how magic took him again at the party.
But my heart quails at the thought of the penalty for necromancy—imprisonment and magical forfeiture. My magic is my life, second only to my daughter. And it would be devastating for Harper. She’s old enough to live independently rather than being taken into state care, but she’d be all alone and with the shame of a mother guilty of the most unnatural crime.
I’ll do it, if it’s the only way to save Harper. But I’m not out of options yet.
The only way that doesn’t involve yet more risk lies with Abigail. Yesterday, it seemed she’d finally a
ccepted that Dan was gone and was prepared to drop her allegations. Now I just need to make her do it. Could I get her here to speak to this reporter?
Harper’s tugging on the door again.
“Earth to Mom? Or are you planning on keeping me indoors all day?”
I would, if I could. I wouldn’t let her out—or even out of my sight—until I have this all fixed. But that won’t be possible.
Going about our daily life will show them we’ve nothing to hide. And if the cameras can see how young Harper is, how she’s just a girl…
“They’ll be watching,” I tell her. “WCON-TV could be just the beginning. There may be photographers. These people take hundreds of photos and use only one—the one where you’re looking angry or dangerous, or smirking. Don’t let them get that shot. Don’t talk to them. Understood? And if you feel threatened or unsure at any time, you come straight home, or go someplace safe and call me, yes?”
Harper nods. I chuck her under the chin. I haven’t done that for years.
“There’s my girl. I’m going to Abigail’s to end this. She’s the one with the power to call it all off, and to make Jake see sense. I won’t let this hang over you, darling.”
I try to show her my love and reassurance, looking deep into my daughter’s eyes. But as ever with Harper, I’m not sure that I see much further than the surface.
“Will you tell her what I told you?” she asks. “What Dan did to me? After all this ‘perfect Daniel’ stuff, I want her to know what kind of monster her son was.”
My stomach knots.
“That’s not a good idea right now,” I say. “It’ll upset her. We need her to cooperate, at least until this is over.”
“So I’m the victim, but we stay quiet while we beg Abigail to please, please tell the nice cops that I didn’t do it? That’s what you’re saying.”
“Darling, please, you can see why.”
Harper’s lip curls. “I should, what, be grateful to be off the hook for something I didn’t do? So grateful that I keep my mouth shut.”
What can I say? That you can’t get justice against a boy who’s dead? That Abigail’s suffered enough by losing her son, and that calling him a rapist would end her?