by Keri Arthur
As the lights of civilization grew stronger, a faint wisp of energy stirred around me—the same sort of energy that I’d felt last night when the specter had appeared.
I glanced around, but couldn’t immediately see her. But then, why would I if she was concealing her form again?
I took a deep breath and then said loudly, “I know you’re out there—what do you want? Why do you keep following me?”
There was no response. I frowned and kept on walking, but the awareness of her presence grew. She was in the trees to my right, pacing me. Watching me.
“If you need help, I can get it for you. But I need some sort of indication that’s what you’re after.”
Again, nothing.
Maybe the fault was mine rather than hers. I might be able to sense the presence of ghosts and specters, but I wasn’t capable of communicating with them. Not unless Belle joined her mind to mine on a deeper level, and even then, it wasn’t me doing the ghost talking, but rather Belle through me.
The caress of the specter’s energy drew closer, stinging my skin with its proximity. I scanned the trees, trying to spot that telltale shimmer without success. If she did want something, then she either wasn’t sure I could be trusted or wasn’t yet ready to tell me.
Belle? How far away are you?
Only a minute or so—why?
The witchy White Lady is pacing me again.
And are you wearing your charm, on the off chance she decides to attack this time?
I doubt she will, but yes, I am. I don’t ever take the damn thing off. Not even when I was showering. Though the charms looked innocuous—they were little more than multiple strands of intertwined leather and copper, with each strand representing a different type of protection spell—they were probably the most powerful things we’d ever created. Only silver would have made them any stronger, but that wasn’t really practical in a werewolf reservation. Or when I was dating a werewolf.
I’d made duplicate ones for both Belle and Aiden, and while Aiden had initially been a tiny bit skeptical—something he hadn’t said out loud—he’d been won over after witnessing the charm’s protection capabilities the day we’d rescued Monty and the soucouyant had tried to crisp me.
I frowned and studied the shadowed scrub. Our specter might be close but she remained out of sight. “I can’t help you if you don’t reveal yourself.”
Still no response. It made me wonder what she was waiting for.
Maybe she’s aware you’re not capable of hearing or speaking to her.
Maybe. My gaze was drawn away from the trees to the street ahead as twin lights appeared in the distance and sped toward me. “A friend who’s a spirit talker will be here in a few seconds, so if you do need help—”
The specter immediately fled. I swore and darted into the forest after her—which wasn’t a very bright move if there were mineshafts in this area, but I couldn’t let her escape. I had a growing suspicion she might play a vital part in our quest to stop whatever might be responsible for the flesh-stripped destruction last night.
I plunged on, raising my free hand to protect my face from whip-like tree branches and scrubby shrubs that were lined with needle-like foliage. The flashlight’s beam did a mad dance across the forest, and the song of the cicadas fell silent as I neared them, only to rise again as I left them behind, creating a wave of sound that would pinpoint my location to anyone who was listening. And I rather suspected the specter was. I also suspected she wanted me to follow her—why else would her energy be maintaining a steady distance rather than pulling away or even completely disappearing, as it had last night?
I’m coming in, Belle said.
No, don’t, in case this is a trap.
Then let me see what you’re seeing.
I’m not seeing a goddamn thing at the moment. Nothing other than the thorny bushes briefly highlighted in the flashlight’s beam.
Even so, I immediately reached for her and deepened the connection. Her being flowed through mine, fusing us as one, though not so deeply that I lost physical control or that her soul left her body and became a part of mine. But she could now see through my eyes and also use her talents through me if necessary. The ability to achieve this sort of remote connection was only a recent discovery; but then, until we’d arrived in this reservation, we’d really had no need for it.
You’re right, came Belle’s thought. She is old. And while the magic wrapped around her is making it difficult to read her, I’m getting the impression she wants to show you something.
I really hope it isn’t another body.
I leaped over a moss-covered log, landed awkwardly on the other side, then caught my balance and ran on.
I don’t think it is. She paused. But I do think it’ll be connected.
Which suggests she’s here to help. And, quite possibly, that she didn’t trust us enough to fully reveal her presence or talk to us yet.
And she may never—remember, she fled when you mentioned I was a spirit talker.
Which only made her behavior even odder. If she wanted to help us, why would she avoid talking to us?
Why is she even following you at all? Monty’s the stronger witch, and Ashworth was there last night. Either of them would be a more logical choice.
I wrinkled my nose and ducked under a low-hanging branch. Maybe it’s nothing more than the fact that I was there first last night. She couldn’t have known Eamon was Monty’s familiar rather than mine.
True. She shrugged mentally. Whatever the reason, until I either see her face or we uncover her past, I’m not going to be able to summon or question her.
Presuming you can get past her magic.
The spell’s a concealment one—it can’t and won’t stop me from summoning her.
Except she now knows you’re a spirit talker and may well add a thread or two to counter that.
Also true.
The ground dropped away suddenly, and I slid to a stop, sending stones bouncing down the steep, scree-filled slope. At its base was a wide creek that wound its way through what looked to be more a man-made ravine rather than a natural one. On a large rock in the middle of the water was something white. The slight shimmer of air that was our specter hovered above it. I narrowed my gaze, and after a moment saw the faint silver and gray threads that was the concealment spell.
Belle sucked in a breath, a sound that echoed loudly through my brain. Damn, the magic behind that spell is powerful.
Yes. She must have been a strong witch in life.
Which begs the question, why would a witch give over her afterlife like this? There are plenty of other ways to seek revenge, if indeed that’s what she wants.
Seeking such revenge in life could be what landed her in this position.
If she had gone after whoever was responsible for the death of her child, why would she be here—in this state—now? It makes no sense at all.
That’s another question to be added to the list if you do manage to summon and talk to her.
I carefully started down the slope. An ever-increasing wave of stones rolled ahead of me, and a thick cloud of dust rose, tickling my throat and making me cough. The noise of the cicadas faded away and the night became still—hushed. Trepidation stirred, even though I had no immediate sense of threat.
I was halfway down the slope when the specter rose and fled. I swore softly but kept my concentration on the unstable ground under my feet; the last thing I needed was to fall. By the time I made it to the ravine’s base, sweat trickled down my back and my legs were on fire. I made another of those somewhat useless mental notes to do something about getting fitter and walked along the creek bank until I was opposite the rock that held the small white pile.
In the flashlight’s bright light, it looked a whole lot like feathers.
Feathers that were covered in blood.
Four
Why on earth would she be showing us a pile of bloody feathers? Belle asked.
It could be she’s not involved w
ith last night’s murders. Maybe she’s just a ghost intent on a little mischief. I stepped onto the nearest rock and threw my hands out for balance as the thing wobbled under my weight.
If that were the case, you wouldn’t have seen her as a lady in white.
Unless that’s part of her game.
Ghosts generally can’t alter their forms. If she presented as a lady in white, it’s because she is one.
I stepped onto the next rock and then hesitated. The rest were half-submerged and moss covered, and while there were others scattered about that sat above the waterline, none of them would get me closer to the big rock holding the feathers. I grimaced and carefully stepped forward, only to slip on the moss and go sliding into the water. One wet shoe might as well be two, I thought, and splashed on. The feathers, I soon discovered, weren’t the only things covered in blood. The top of the rock was, too. And there were bones. Tiny birdlike bones.
She’s obviously trying to give us a message by showing us this, Belle said. But it’s certainly one I don’t understand.
Me neither. It obviously wasn’t a new kill—while the blood on the feathers still held a gleam of red, the stuff on the rock was black and flaking. If a specter hadn’t led me here, I would have presumed it was a favorite eating spot for whatever hawk or eagle hunted in the area.
And yet…
I narrowed my gaze and studied the feathers. They were obviously from a largish bird, and had dark brown stripes alternating with lighter gray. There were no signs of spell threads and certainly no indication that this was anything other than the remains of a hunter’s snack.
But doubt persisted.
I carefully reached out, but as my fingers neared the feathers, I felt the faint caress of magic. And, underneath that, evil.
I quickly withdrew my hand. Belle, I’m going to need my spell stones.
I’ll have to go back for them.
Do so. I’ll wait. The magic might not have had the feel or look of a spell, but that didn’t mean a whole lot given my lack of knowledge and training when it came to spell craft. I wasn’t about to risk triggering something that could reverberate through the rest of reservation, doing God only knows what damage.
The water seeping into my runners was damn icy, so I splashed back to the bank then sat on a nearby rock. After taking off my shoes and socks and squeezing out as much water as I could, I laid them out on the rock, hoping the day’s heat still emanating from it would go some way to drying them. Then, with little else to do but wait, I hugged my knees close to my chest and kept the flashlight’s beam pointed at the feathers, trying to figure out what lay within them.
It was nearly half an hour before lights began to dance through the trees above me. Several minutes later, Belle appeared at the top of the scree slope, and she wasn’t alone. Ashworth was with her.
Thought it prudent, she said. If there is some sort of magic attached to the feathers, he can deal with it.
Good thinking, 99.
I’m not just a pretty face and fabulous bod, you know. Besides, if anything is going to blow up, I’d rather it do so all over Ashworth than you.
I snorted. You’re forgetting the fact that I’ll be standing right beside him. But I don’t think anything will blow up.
You can’t be certain of that.
Well, no, but I’ve spent the last twenty-eight or so minutes studying those feathers, and the magic within them simply doesn’t feel active.
If there’s one thing this reservation has taught me, it’s that things aren’t always what they seem.
A statement I couldn’t disagree with.
Ashworth helped Belle down the slope—although she didn’t really need it given she was probably stronger and steadier than either him or me—and then strode toward me, looking more like an aging biker than an RWA witch of some power. Tonight’s outfit—a moth-eaten Metallica T-shirt and faded, grimy jeans that were frayed at the pockets and knees—didn’t help that impression. Though I doubted any biker worth his salt would wear red sneakers so old that his right toe stuck out. Obviously Eli—who was Ashworth’s partner—hadn’t yet followed through with his threat to burn the damn things.
“I can always rely on you to break the evening’s boredom,” he said, his wrinkled features creased into a wide smile.
I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were entertaining relatives tonight?”
“Eli’s relatives, not mine. I love the man, but his sisters drive me insane.” He stopped beside me and studied the feathers. “I’m not feeling a spell, but there’s definitely something there.”
I nodded. “The stone’s surface is covered in blood, but I suspect most of it is old. The blood on the feathers is fresher.”
Belle handed me the backpack. “Our White Lady hasn’t completely disappeared, either. She’s watching from a distance.”
My gaze snapped to hers. “Can you contact her?”
She shook her head. “She’s right on the edge of my range, and without a name or a specific image to lock on to, I risk summoning every other ghost who haunts the area.”
“Not something I’d recommend, given mass summonings often end disastrously.” Ashworth handed Belle his flashlight, then took off his shoes and socks and dumped them onto the rock next to mine. “Shall we go investigate?”
I slung the pack over my shoulder and followed him into the water. And quickly discovered the pebbles that lined the riverbed were not as smooth as they looked. “I take it you’ve witnessed such a summoning?”
“I was once assigned a case where a couple of teenagers had gotten hold of a Ouija board and decided it might be fun to raise a soul.” He strode toward the larger rock, not seeming to care about the roughness underfoot. “Unfortunately, they did so in the middle of a graveyard and one of them was an untrained talent. Not only did they end up with more than a dozen souls answering, there were multiple generations of the same family who did not get on.”
We reached the rock and stopped. Ashworth raised a hand and skimmed it above the blood and the feathers. “It’s definitely not a spell.”
“Then what is it?”
He hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “I think the magic—and the evil—we can feel is an intrinsic part of whatever bird these feathers came from.”
“That suggests their origin is shape shifter rather than a bird.” While some birds—like magpies in breeding season—could be evil, attacking bastards, it wasn’t an intrinsic part of their nature.
“Yes,” Ashworth said, “although whether the blood and bones belong to said shifter or their victim is another matter entirely.”
“It’s doubtful the White Lady would have led us here if whoever those feathers belonged to was dead,” Belle commented.
“Agreed. But the truly important question here is, are these feathers related to last night’s murders? Or is it a completely separate case?”
“Yet another question we currently can’t answer,” I said.
His grin flashed again. “Not true. A little magical divination should do the trick, I think.”
“But there’s little more than old blood and feathers here—how are you going to divine anything from them?”
He glanced at me, eyes gleaming in the light. “Your witchy knowledge—or lack thereof—is sometimes very shocking, you know that?”
I grinned. “My witchy knowledge—or lack thereof—saved your ass, old man, so don’t be preaching at me.”
He chuckled softly. “We’re not going to be able to use our spell stones to set a protective circle, thanks to the water, so we’ll have to create an incorporeal one.”
“You’ll have to step me through it, as I’ve never done something like that.”
He nodded and glanced around. “Belle, keep an eye on the specter, just in case this is some sort of trap. White ladies often have a vengeful bent, and we have no idea what this one wants as yet.”
“I will, but given she ran the minute Liz mentioned I was a spirit talker, I don’t think she presents any
immediate danger.”
Ashworth grunted and glanced at me. “Ready?”
“I guess. What do you want me to do?”
“Stand on the opposite side of the rock. Once we join hands, I’ll start the spell. You repeat my words, and the result should be a protection circle that’s anchored by our presence rather than spell stones.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why do I have to go into the deeper water?”
“Because I’m older and frailer.”
I snorted and moved into position. Once I’d positioned the flashlight securely on the rock, I reached out and clasped his hands. His power crawled over my fingers, probing my energy, testing its depths—an automatic reaction rather than a deliberate one. Even so, he sucked in a breath. “Damn, the wild magic is strong in you these days.”
I met his gaze warily. Ashworth might be aware of my connection with the wild magic, but I hadn’t yet mentioned the reason I believed it was happening. The fewer people who knew about that, the less chance there was of the information getting back to my parents or husband.
And yet it would happen. Eventually. No matter how discreet Monty and Ashworth were in their requests for information on either the wild magic or human interaction with it, sooner or later, one of the higher-ups would get curious and come investigating.
I’d always had my mom’s features, but with my eyes now silver rather than green, there could be no mistaking whose daughter I was. The only reason it hadn’t happened before now was the fact that all the witches—Monty aside—who’d come into the reservation so far, generally had little physical contact with either Canberra or the High Council.
I tried to ignore the almost instinctive wave of trepidation and fear that rose whenever I thought of the place I’d once called home, and said, “Did you ever get an answer to that request you put in for more information about it?”