The Source (Witching Savannah, Book 2)

by Horn, J. D.

  “I gotta get back to work.” Peter pushed away from the table and left the three of us staring at the door as it slammed shut behind him.

  “He’ll be okay,” Claire said after a moment of silence. “I know my boy. He’s frightened, but he’ll come around. You’re his world.”

  “Frightened people do foolish things,” I said, not even really thinking about how this could be applied to what Claire had done, inviting Ryder and his gang into our lives, but once the words had been spoken, I couldn’t call them back.

  “Yes, we do,” she said. “I must apologize to you, Mr. Clay. I was wrong about you, both about what you are and about your intentions. I hope you can forgive me. I pray that you will keep your word and remain silent for my son’s sake as well as Mercy’s.”

  “You have already suffered a much more severe punishment at the hands of the collector than I myself would have ever meted out. In regard to Peter, I will kneel at the altar of Harpocrates.”

  Claire looked at me for clarification. “That’s Emmet for ‘We’re good.’ ”

  She nodded. “I think I’d like a bit of a lie-down,” she said. “I don’t know how we are even going to open tonight with this mess. Good Lord, the smell. It may take days for it to fade.”

  “Rest,” Emmet said, addressing Claire. “As a sign of goodwill, I will repair the damaged floor and rid your establishment of this scent. It will be a way to ‘clear the air’ between us once and for all.” Emmet tilted his head to the side and smiled. He seemed quite pleased with his pun, but Claire was too overwhelmed to even notice. She just nodded and left the room.

  As soon as she was gone, Emmet set about restoring the damage that had been done. The floorboards seemed to rearrange themselves on a molecular level, the deep gouges welcoming the returning wood dust that had until recently filled them. The burn marks lightened in color and faded to match the original shade. He stopped a moment before finishing the restoration. “As a point of clarification,” he said, “a fetus’s ability to call to its father in times of danger is not a witch trait. That magic belongs to the Fae.”

  EIGHTEEN

  My family and Emmet were wrapped up in the final preparations for the cleansing of the old hospital, but I was distracted. Iris had warned me that ridding Old Candler of the demon would be a challenge, but now I could barely concentrate on anything other than my son. What his life would be like. What he would be like. How could I find out if there were any records of a hybrid witch and fairy birth without raising some very difficult questions from my aunts and uncle? Even if I were certain I could trust them, I felt I had to honor my promise to Claire. I regretted having told Oliver as much as I had about Claire’s misgivings about Emmet. I could come up with a cover for that. I didn’t know what that cover would be, but I’d find something. I’d recently promised myself there would be no more lies in my life, but that promise was probably the biggest lie of them all. To try to escape the labyrinth of my thoughts, I made a stronger effort to concentrate on Iris’s words.

  “A hundred years ago, such a thing as a witching hour still existed,” Iris said as she removed a few essential items for the cleansing ritual from the cupboard and put them into a grocery bag. “Electric lights, night shifts, twenty-four-hour restaurants. These things have pretty much done away with it.”

  “How so?” I asked. After waiting a lifetime, I had finally made it to the inside track of the world of magic. In spite of other concerns, I wanted to soak up as much information as I could, as quickly as I could.

  “Well, because the witching hour has never had anything to do with a certain time on a clock. It isn’t midnight. It isn’t three in the morning. It’s simply the time when the majority of conscious minds are sleeping. Reality becomes a bit more pliant, more flexible, when the world around a witch is dreaming. It made it easier for him or her to work magic, imprint his or her will on reality using much less energy. Now folk are up at all hours. The world is always awake—calculating, measuring.” She consulted her list. “Sage, lavender, and cedar oils.” She looked at me. “You do get that these things have absolutely no effect on spirits, leave alone demons, right?”

  “Then why are we using them?”

  “They might not have any effect on the bogeys,” Oliver chimed in, “but they affect the people who enter the environment where the spirits have been.”

  “Okay,” I said, shaking my head at the same time to show I didn’t follow.

  “Sage doesn’t chase away spirits,” Iris continued, “but it does mask their scent. Spirits carry an ozone scent, and demons smell like sulfur or rotten eggs. A person might not even consciously register the smell, but they’ll sense it on some level. It’s that awareness that the spirit can use as a doorway to return to the environment.”

  “So you are telling me that what you don’t know really can’t hurt you.”

  “Only after the spirits have been removed, sweetie,” Ellen said. “The herbs and oils just make the place more pleasant. The less creepy the vibes are in a place, the less likely a person is to go looking for shadows and inadvertently invite them back in.”

  “Now salt does affect demons directly,” Iris said, and Oliver chuckled, as though her words had summoned up a memory. “When one does manage to materialize in our reality, it usually starts out quite small, with a body made up of a mucus-like substance.”

  “Think snails or slugs,” Oliver said, shaking the box of rock salt that Iris had placed on the counter.

  “Ugh,” Ellen said. “I always hated salting. That sizzling and whining sound those things make.”

  I stood there staring in disbelief at the three of them. “Your grandfather used to take us out with him when he went hunting, as he liked to call it,” Iris explained.

  “Ellen was a bit too girly to enjoy the finer aspects of the catch,” Oliver said. She waved off the memory, giving a shudder. “Your mama, on the other hand, she was what the itty-bitty baby demons had nightmares about.”

  They all laughed at once, and then said, “The old saw mill,” in unison. I loved these three so much, and they seemed to love my mother so much . . . I kept forgetting that she herself had implied that they’d kept her from me. The affection they appeared to share for my mother didn’t at all match her version of events. I felt sure there was enough love there to right Ginny’s wrongs. That was if I could ever manage to get my family all together. But there would be time to reflect on that later. Within the hour, I’d be facing a demon. I set all thoughts of my mother to the side.

  “Honestly,” Ellen said, “I wish we didn’t have to deal with this now. We have enough on our hands.”

  “I feel the same way,” Iris said, “but the people renovating that place are the ones setting the schedule. We need to dispatch Barron before Candler is turned over to its new purpose. I wouldn’t want to risk what he might do otherwise.”

  Emmet entered the room, carrying a dusty box that looked like it had been rummaged from a far corner of the attic. “I beg you all to reconsider the wisdom of the jocular tone of these preparations. You should not risk lulling Mercy into a false sense of security about dealing with Barron. It’s true that he is not the greatest evil this world has ever known, but he is a parasite that preys on the weak and the young, those who cannot defend themselves. Remember, Mercy, this demon feasts on children.”

  “You’re right,” Iris said. “It is certainly not our intention to make light of the evil this demon has done, but I have already made it clear to Mercy how dangerous it will be to deal with him.”

  “It’s only that we are so happy to have her with us,” Ellen said, “as one of us.” I knew what she meant. I felt it too. For the first time, they could include me, rather than mislead or misdirect me for my own protection.

  “But you are right, Sandman,” Oliver said. “Fun and games aside, this is serious business. Are you sure you are up for it, Gingersnap?”
r />   “She is ready,” Emmet answered for me. He raised his chin and looked down at me proudly. My efforts with Ryder had impressed him much more than they had myself. All the same, I’d asked him not to share the details about our encounter at Magh Meall with the others. We’d share our agreed-upon version of events when we were through dealing with Barron. “But she needs your sober example.”

  Oliver looked at me for a response anyway. “He’s right,” I said. “I’m ready to do this. I know it is serious, dangerous, but we will do this together.”

  “All right then.” Iris addressed Emmet, “Have you chosen a poppet for us?”

  “Yes,” Emmet said, producing an antique porcelain doll from the box he had been carrying. He placed it on the counter next to the supplies Iris had gathered together. I noticed that the doll’s hands had been bound with a red ribbon. “It is ready for animation, but I feel it’s best to wait until we are closer to the time of use.”

  “Oh,” Ellen said. “Do we have to use that one?”

  “It’s the only one made entirely of clay. The vessel must be made of earth.”

  “Wait,” I said, “what are we doing with the doll?”

  “Your grandfather trapped Barron in the hospital,” Emmet said. “We need a vessel to transport him to his new home. An enticing vessel. A living vessel.”

  “You are going to bring the doll to life?”

  “To a semblance of life,” Iris said.

  “In much the same way my body was at first animated,” Emmet said.

  “We’re all going to give it a share of ourselves, Gingersnap, just enough for the combined energies to confuse Barron, making him believe it’s a human child.”

  “And then?”

  “Then,” Iris said, “when he comes to take the child, we will trap him inside the doll. Then we can remove your grandfather’s spell, free the spirits trapped there, and remove Barron to a safer location until we figure out how to return him to where he lived when Gilles summoned him.”

  “And you are okay with this?” I asked Emmet. It sickened me that we’d be using as bait something so close to what Emmet had been.

  “What else would you propose?” Iris asked. “That we use a flesh-and-blood child? Or that we visit the pound and find a puppy?”

  “Of course not,” I gasped. “But Emmet . . .”

  “I am touched by your concern, but this doll will not contain the vital spark that the line has given me. It will be as I was before the line touched me, an empty vessel. Nothing more.” I still wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Even before the line had coalesced the nine essences of Emmet’s makers into a single personality, I had considered him more than just an “empty vessel.” Had my own feelings led me to project more onto him than had truly existed? Had my own perception of him influenced the line to free the golem as it had?

  “Shall we load up then? Head over to Candler?” Oliver asked, interrupting my reverie. I nodded, and my aunts grabbed their purses as Oliver took charge of the supplies Iris had pulled together. I grasped the doll. I knew my resistance was irrational, but I couldn’t bear the thought of Emmet carrying the poppet to its sacrifice.

  “It was my idea,” he assured me once more.

  Oliver and Iris drove together, and Emmet and I followed with Ellen. We had planned for Oliver to arrive first so that he could charm the newly instated security guards. It bothered me to see that Candler was no longer deserted—the first visible evidence of the restoration work was the light that shone all around the building that had been dark my entire life.

  I hadn’t expected to see that the parking lot had already been extended, and the opening into which I had descended in search of Jilo was now paved over, sealed for good. “Rumor has it they wanted to cut down the old oak to make space for a few more cars,” Ellen said as we followed Oliver. “I thought Iris would die from a fit of apoplexy. She’s put a curse on the oak now, you know. Anyone who attempts to harm it will be sorry they tried.” My aunt smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “You know Iris and her love of history.”

  “Good for her,” I said. The Candler Oak was sacred to me as well.

  Thanks to Oliver’s powers of persuasion, both magical and his plain inborn sense of entitlement, we were not only allowed access—we were actually escorted inside by the guard on duty. “You’ll keep everyone else out of here tonight, and tomorrow morning, you will forget we were ever here, please.”

  “Of course, Mr. Taylor,” the man responded. “Y’all have a good evening now.”

  I still wasn’t totally comfortable with Oliver’s ability to compel others, the way he would impose his will on them without the slightest twinge of conscience. Maybe it was my conscience that kept me from being able to work this skill as well as my uncle could.

  The door hadn’t finished closing behind us before Emmet spoke up. “I sense that something is wrong here.” We all stopped in our tracks, and I watched as my family tried to sense what he had.

  “I don’t feel anything,” Ellen offered, shaking her head at me.

  “No,” Iris said. “Emmet is correct. Someone has been here tonight. Magic has been worked.”

  “Blood magic,” I said, feeling the horror of the victim rush up around me.

  “Yes,” Emmet said, pride for me, his prize pupil, showing in his eyes. It was intriguing to watch him learn how to connect to human emotions. He seemed to feel love, perhaps anger, but his response to the victim’s pain was clinical at best. Empathy hadn’t caught up to him yet . . . at least not empathy for strangers. I could sense the pain and fear she had experienced. I knew it without a doubt—the victim had been a woman. The sense of betrayal she felt toward the man who had brought her here broke my heart. I found myself clutching the doll I carried for comfort.

  “I’m afraid it’s worse than that,” Oliver said, getting a full fix on our surroundings. “There’s something missing, something that should be here but isn’t.”

  “The demon is gone,” Iris said, her tone revealing that she herself could not as yet wholly accept that fact. “I sense a blankness, a hole where its evil was.”

  I began walking, following my witch’s sense that had little if anything to do with the normal five. My family and Emmet followed me, a tightly knit shield of our combined magic protecting us as we continued down the main hall and to a stairwell that had been blocked off for decades. The steel door had been removed, no, blown from its hinges, and it lay several feet from where it had once hung. “Down here,” I said, my feet leading me down the stairs to the basement. The door at that end had also been ripped from its hinges. It lay several yards away, bent into the shape of a U. The hall was bathed in shadow, only a single naked bulb shedding an insufficient circle of light. Splinters of glass running the length of the ground showed where the other bulbs had been broken. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I saw the body that was only partially hidden behind the bowed metal door. A pair of denim-covered legs stuck out, one foot covered by a dirty sneaker, the other bare and twisted toward us so that even in the shadows, I could make out the neon pink polish on the toenails.

  The smell coming from behind the door was impossible to bear. I brought my hand up to my nose. I wanted to stop, but my body continued to carry me closer. As I drew near enough to see over the door, I cried out involuntarily, “Oh God,” and stopped. The body had no torso, only a ravaged stump that stuck out a few inches above the top of the blood-soaked jeans. There, through the redness that colored the remaining flesh, I recognized the remaining part of a tattoo as the orange feet of a famous cartoon bird. Without my consciously attempting to do so, my magic charged the room, awakening a vision of the violence that had happened here.

  I saw the train people. Joe held Birdy, while Ryder cut into her with an athame, a ceremonial dagger. He held it in his left hand, manipulating it clumsily. Birdy’s screams echoed in my ears—heart-wrenching wails of pa
in and unheeded pleas. Joe’s face tilted up and strained in an expression of sexual, nearly religious ecstasy as he assisted Ryder in this act of treachery. I turned and started swiftly back toward my family, but tripped over something. The doll flew from my grasp and shattered as it hit the floor. I fell to my hands and knees as Emmet rushed up in an attempt to catch me. I looked over my shoulder to see what I’d stumbled on and gasped in horror as Emmet pulled me into his arms, holding me tight to shield me from the horrors I had seen. I’d tripped over an arm, a familiar hand and tattooed forearm that was partially covered in the molten steel of a hunting knife.

  “He offered up Birdy,” I spoke in Emmet’s ear. “He offered up Birdy for power.”

  “That appears to be the case,” Emmet said, releasing me into my Aunt Iris’s outstretched arms, but taking his time about it.

  “You know this person?” Iris asked. I calculated how much I could tell her without exposing the truth about Peter. “She was a friend of yours?”

  “No, not a friend. She and her associates tried to use Mercy and Claire as bait to capture me,” Emmet said. “This woman’s mate, a man named Ryder, has been consorting with a witch, a true witch who placed the mark of the collector on him. In her efforts to protect me, Mercy damaged his mark. I suspect he summoned the demon, offering it freedom in exchange for the power Mercy took from him.”

  “But how could he use Birdy to summon it?” I asked. “I thought the demon was only attracted to children and innocents. I wouldn’t have considered Birdy either.”