The Void (Witching Savannah Book 3)

by Horn, J. D.

  “Of course, dear,” Iris responded without taking her eyes off me. “We understand.” I didn’t, but I had enough to think about without picking a fight. Abby hesitated to take Maisie’s hand, but then she grabbed hold of my sister and escorted her down the hall.

  “Take Mercy to my room, please,” Iris said to Sam.

  Sam maneuvered me through the doorway to Iris’s room and sat me on the foot of the bed. He knelt beside me. Oliver sat next to me, putting his arm around my shoulder to prop me up.

  “Who is this guy Maisie killed anyway?” Sam asked Iris. He used the present tense. Iris didn’t respond. Instead she used the washcloth to dab at the splatters on my face.

  “Teague Ryan,” Oliver answered for her. “He was our cousin.”

  I looked up at Iris. “He’s been working with Gudrun to . . . trap me.” Iris’s head tilted up and her lips pursed. “He said the only way to stop him was to kill him, and Maisie, well, Maisie . . .” I didn’t recognize my sister since the line had allowed me to bring her home. On the exterior she remained unchanged. On the inside, though, well, truth was I had probably never really known what was going on in her soul. I wanted to believe my sister was not the person who had offered me up as sacrifice. That she was not responsible for her acts, considering she had been driven mad as a consequence of Ginny’s crimes. And I had hoped that somehow we could reach down into her and find the grain of the girl she had been born to be and nurture it. Abigail had much more experience plumbing the depths of souls. Maybe she was right, maybe Maisie was too far gone, but I wasn’t ready to give up hope yet.

  “He was conspiring against an anchor of the line.” Iris’s words broke into my thoughts.

  “Yes,” I said, “but he said the other anchors know all about it. He implied he had their consent, if not their assistance.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Iris said. “Well, it matters, but not in regard to how we are going to handle this situation. Listen to me.” She freed her hand and placed both her hands on my shoulders. “Maisie did not kill Teague. You did. Do you hear me?”

  “I don’t understand.” I shook my head.

  “You are an anchor. It is an anchor’s right to remove anyone who threatens them.”

  “My right?” I asked. “That’s horrible. I shouldn’t have the right to kill anyone.”

  “It’s their law, not ours. You were doing your duty. You were protecting the line. That is the story we need to stick to.”

  “I don’t know what you two are talking about,” Sam said, “but why do you need to give these people a cover story? It sounds like this was self-defense to me.” Was it only my imagination, or had Sam started shifting away? He seemed to be trying to avoid Iris’s touch. Even an accidental one. That didn’t bode well for their relationship. Had he seen too much? Just moments ago he was ready to act without judgment.

  Iris reached out her hand, and he stepped back. A small twitch of her right eye told me that she, too, had noticed Sam’s sudden coolness. “Of course it was self-defense, but all the same, if the families learn Maisie killed Teague . . .”

  She didn’t need to finish her sentence. I understood. They would use any excuse to take Maisie from us. This time once and for all.

  Maisie’s lack of any hesitation to kill or remorse for the murder she had just committed made me wonder if maybe this callous killer was the true Maisie. Our very conception was linked to black magic; we had been born as an unintended result of our parents’ attempt to destroy the line through the sex and murder magic of Tillandsia. Had my sister and I been tainted, stained to our very souls by their acts? Had I made a mistake bringing Maisie home?

  “Maybe we just can’t save Maisie.” Ellen stood in the doorway. She stumbled a bit as she stepped over the threshold, but managed to catch herself. “Maybe we can’t save Mama either.” Even from ten paces away, I could smell the alcohol on her. She took a few more weaving steps, then stopped right before us. “Sometimes people get too lost for the saving.”

  “Ah, damn it, Ellen, like things aren’t difficult enough around here,” Oliver said, removing his arm, and after reassuring himself I wouldn’t flop over, he stood. “Come on, I’ll put on some coffee.”

  He walked over to Ellen and grasped her arm. She shook it off. “I don’t want coffee.”

  “Sorry, sis, but right now I don’t give a donkey’s damn what you want.” He got a stronger grip on her and spun her around. He escorted her from the room, and Iris went to the door and stared after them. I heard Ellen protesting as Oliver ushered her down the stairs.

  “I’d like to clean myself up now,” I said, then realized I didn’t want to use my regular bath in the hall, knowing very soon that hall would be swarming with witches. Iris’s bathroom was en suite, and that meant I could have two closed doors between me and the rest of the world. The doors wouldn’t provide much of a barrier against intrusion and offered none against magic, but in this moment the psychological separation they promised seemed precious.

  “Aunt Iris?” I asked, and she turned to me.

  “Yes?”

  “May I use your shower?”

  She nodded. “Of course, sweetheart.”

  TWELVE

  I stood under the hot water for what seemed like forever, watching the pink of Teague’s sticky blood rinse down the drain. Even after the water ran clear, and I knew my skin was clean, I washed myself again, wondering if I could ever forget the sensation of his life jetting out on me.

  I stepped from the shower and dried my body, taking a moment to place my hand on my stomach and send loving, calming thoughts to my little one. I wrapped the bath sheet around myself, and borrowed Iris’s blow dryer. I liked the way the whine of its fan helped to drown out the sound of the argument that had broken out downstairs. The second I turned it off, the voices rose.

  I was grateful to see Iris had gone to my room and found clothes for me to wear. A teal-and-white sundress with a matching cyan sweater. My modest maternity underwear. I dressed to the accompaniment of shouts and tearful recriminations. The shouts came from Oliver, the tears from his sisters. I heard the door, and another angry voice joined in. This one belonged to Adam. That Sam’s voice didn’t rise to Iris’s defense led me to surmise she’d sent Sam away while we handled the witch stuff.

  Iris either hadn’t remembered to provide me with socks or shoes or had begun to take the barefoot and pregnant idea a tad too much to heart. My comfortable trainers had been covered in Teague’s blood. I’d never wear them again. I considered trying to stuff my feet into a pair of Iris’s diminutive shoes, but I would probably only end up with blisters. I steeled my nerves and went down the hall barefoot to my own room.

  Teague’s body had been moved. I could only surmise the families had moved quickly to claim his remains, although they delegated the rest of the cleanup to us. We would have to burn the rug. My favorite quilt. The clothes Maisie and I had been wearing. Everything that had been splattered with Teague’s blood. That was the only way to know for sure the magic that still resided in his blood couldn’t be used to power spells that ought not be cast. Even though the room would be thoroughly and magically scoured, I couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping here. Eventually, we might return to the room I’d grown up in, but for tonight at least, I’d ask to move my and Peter’s essentials to Uncle Oliver’s deserted room.

  I heard a movement in the hall and turned to find Peter standing in the doorway. His normally ruddy complexion turned ashen, and he grasped the doorframe to steady himself. “I thought you’d be safe in this house,” he said, shaking his head as he took the scene in. I didn’t have to ask how he knew to come. I knew our child had called him, just as he had when Ryder had attacked at Magh Meall and when Emily had trapped me at the Tillandsia house. Peter released the frame and took a step into the room, his eyes fixed on the bloodstained rug. He drew nearer. “I’m glad she killed him,” Peter annou
nced. “I am.”

  I couldn’t bear to hear his words. I began to turn away, but his calloused hand caught my arm. His mismatched blue and green eyes burned with an anger that was seasoned by fear. “It saved me the trouble.”

  I couldn’t look at Peter. It broke my heart to hear his words. “Don’t talk that way.” I grasped his hand in mine, pulling it down to my protruding stomach. “You know he hears you. He understands more than you think. I don’t want him thinking his father is a killer. That isn’t you.”

  He leaned forward and placed a kiss near where our hands rested. “I know he hears me.” Peter looked up at me, his sweet smile returning to his lips. “He talks to me too, you know. Not in words. In feelings. In pictures.” I knew Colin could call his father in moments of crisis, but I would have never guessed the two were so linked.

  Peter’s smiled faded. “He’s felt fear. Real fear, and I will not have that. I want him to know I would do anything to protect him. To protect both of you. If killing is what it takes to keep you safe—”

  “Please don’t say it. Please don’t.”

  He stopped talking, but his expression, the set of his honest eyes, the way his right eyebrow arched a bit higher than its mate, the tilt of his head, these things finished his thought wordlessly. “He tried to hurt you and the baby.” His words forced me to be honest with myself. It wasn’t that Teague didn’t need killing. I just didn’t want blood on my husband’s hands, or my sister’s for that matter.

  “Let’s not talk about it anymore,” I said. “Let’s go join the others and see where things stand.” I pulled away and went to the closet. An old pair of canvas sneakers sat on the top shelf. I went up on my toes, but Peter reached over me and pulled them down for me. I skirted the bloodstains on the floor and rug and fished a pair of socks from a drawer. I slid the chair away from my smashed makeup mirror, far away, and finished dressing. Peter remained within an arm’s length of me the entire time, then shepherded me downstairs with his arm around my waist. He held on to me like he was afraid someone might snatch me away, and I let him.

  “I thought she’d be safe here.” The sound of Adam’s frustration met us in the hall. “I thought y’all had magic-proofed this place after you found out Jilo had enjoyed her run of the house.” It surprised me to hear their voices were coming from the library rather than the kitchen, our regular meeting place during times of crisis.

  “We’ve tried,” I heard Iris say, “many times over the years. General, all-encompassing protection spells are weaker than ones a witch might create to deal with a particular threat. A strong will combined with the right amount of magic can blow right past them. The ones aimed at fending off particular types of attacks are stronger, sometimes much stronger, but only good for dealing with that particular threat. Besides, even perfectly adequate charms age and weaken, and magic is always evolving. What worked last year might prove worthless today.”

  “Ginny always kept our protections in place,” Ellen said, her words still a little slurred. “I’m not making excuses”—a fire rose in her tone, probably in response to Adam’s unspoken challenge—“but the truth is, none of us have her skill.”

  “None of us have Ginny’s ability to focus,” Oliver said. “The old biddy had security well under control.”

  “What my family is not saying,” I whispered to Peter, “is the responsibility for ensuring our security really lies with me, but I haven’t a clue how to handle it. Those who could teach me how, the other anchors, treat me like a pariah. They don’t want me to know the best ways to protect myself and my family . . .”

  Peter put his finger to my lips. “To hell with them all.” He lowered his hand and kissed me. “Tell me, where would you feel safe?”

  At this point I wasn’t sure I could feel safe anywhere, but I knew what he wanted me to say. “Take me to Magh Meall,” I said. “I want to see your parents.”

  “That’s my girl.” Peter beamed down at me. I wouldn’t feel a lick safer in the tavern where I’d been attacked by Ryder than in the house where Teague had attacked me, but Peter wanted to believe he could help by taking me where he himself felt more secure. One more lie, a little white one, perhaps, but still another lie between us. All of a sudden, Oliver and Adam began verbally tearing into each other. Their words came too quickly and overlapped each other. I couldn’t make out what had been said, but the anger came through loud and clear. “We’ll go out the back way,” Peter said and took my hand to lead me through the kitchen.

  He eased the swinging door open and closed, and ushered me past the table toward the back door.

  As I passed, something caught my eye. “Wait,” I said, my hand slipping from his grip.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure.” I crossed to the table where the map of Savannah still lay open. A mug of coffee sat on it. The ring of a coffee stain showed a few inches to the left of the mug’s current placement. A perfect dark circle had been made over one of the marks Adam had made on it, so that his X stood at the circle’s exact center. I lifted the still warm mug to find a second, lighter stain had formed there also. The perfect circles. The crisscrossed lines. “Go get Oliver.”

  “Are you sure? I think you should take a break from all this.”

  I shook my head. My heart began to thud. It was all so clear now. “No. Please go get my uncle.” When Peter didn’t move, I looked up at him. “Please. Now. Tell him I’ve found the Tree of Life.”

  THIRTEEN

  My aunts filed into the kitchen, with Oliver and Adam on their heels. “I sent Sam home,” Iris answered before I could ask. I nodded as Peter slid out a chair for me. “I worry about how he is doing with all this,” she said. “It’s true he doesn’t share the antipathy most civilians feel for us witches, but if things get too complicated, too strange . . . Well, he is only a man after all.” Iris pulled out a chair and sat across from me.

  “If he loves you, he’ll handle it just fine,” Peter said and beamed at my aunt. “Look at me. There isn’t any amount of weird that could come between Mercy and me.”

  “Yes,” Iris said and offered a drawn smile. “But you two are blessed to have found each other. I don’t seem to share your luck in love.”

  I reached out and took her hands in mine. I clasped them tightly, and did my best to send every ounce of love I could to her through that physical connection. I couldn’t lie to her, and I didn’t want to diminish her concerns by whitewashing the truth. Sam had taken the sight of my standing over my cousin’s corpse with aplomb; then in the next moment, he seemed overwhelmed by the high strangeness that was our life. He behaved as if the very thought of Iris’s touch reviled him. Adam had almost walked away from Oliver. God knows he had reason enough to. Until Adam showed up at my wedding, I’d thought for sure he’d had enough of the Taylors and our magic, which had over time cost him his son and very nearly his own life.

  A new wave of gratitude for Peter washed over me. I was lucky to have him, especially after the way I let myself get confused first over Jackson—again I shuddered at the thought that I had let that demon touch me. Then again, there were the mixed messages I’d sent to Peter over Emmet. I suddenly realized I still hadn’t told him about Emmet’s impending return to Savannah.

  “I wish I could somehow compartmentalize my life,” Iris said, pulling her hands from mine. “Put Sam in a comfortable, safe place, where he wouldn’t be at risk. As we all know, though, no amount of magic will allow that.”

  Adam grunted. “It takes a tough man to love a Taylor.” He patted Iris on the back. “If he isn’t strong enough to hang in there, then he doesn’t deserve you.”

  “That’s right,” Peter said and smiled.

  “If you two are through congratulating yourselves on your grit,” Oliver said, trying to look cool, but not doing a very good job of covering the fact Adam had once again swept him off his metaphorical feet, “Mercy can tell us what sh
e means about finding the Tree of Life.”

  I pointed at the coffee rings on the map. “Make you think of anything?”

  “Hmmm . . . maybe.” He fished a compass I hadn’t seen since high school from the same drawer that had housed the map and drew nine neat circles with the Xs at their centers. He sat down and stared at the map for a few moments, considering the marks he’d just placed on it. “You may very well be right, Gingersnap,” Oliver said and laid down the compass, “but I don’t see any correspondences between the placement of the body parts and the sephirot.”

  “The what?” Adam loomed over me, staring over my shoulder.

  “The sephirot.” I touched each of the nine circles, and looked back at him. “In Kabbalah—” I began, but the way he raised his eyebrows and looked down his nose at me told me he had no idea what that was either. “It’s a kind of Jewish mysticism. The sephirot circles represent the ten attributes of the infinite mind. Together with some connecting lines”—my finger traced the marks Adam himself had made on the map—“they combine to form the Tree of Life.”

  Oliver looked at Adam. “Not much of a tree really, more like a mystical Twister mat. When the head turns up, we’ll have the tenth sephira.”

  “ ‘Ten Sephirot of Nothingness, ten and not nine,’ ” Iris quoted although I had no idea of her source, “ ‘ten and not eleven.’ The Sepher Yetzirah, the Book of Creation.” She scooted her chair closer to her brother’s. As she did so, it struck me that this was our Thanksgiving. Other families would be sitting down to candied yams and pumpkin pie. Not us; we were gathering around a murder map.

  Adam stared at me blankly. “I’m sorry, I evidently don’t speak witch.”

  “God is eternal. God is indivisible,” Ellen said, brushing back the hair from her reddened but sobering eyes. “God is perfect.” She focused over my head at Adam. “Where God is, there is no need or even room for change or growth. For God to create, he, she, it . . . whatever you want to call God, had to get out of the way. God created ten blank spaces, ten points both within himself and yet where he was not. Together these points form the great void, where all realities come into existence.”