Down the forest path to the center of the park, he passed two sets of tourists and a woman with a fluffy golden retriever in a service dog vest. The tourists didn’t hold any interest for him, but he smiled at the woman. The kind of wide, charming grin that revealed all his teeth. He knew it was effective, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised when she flushed and smiled back. The breeze pushed a few strands of hair off one shoulder, revealing a slender, pale throat. His hands would take up that entire space.
He didn’t flinch when the dog abruptly growled and lunged forward. She gave a little shriek of surprise and hauled on the leash, struggling to pull him back.
“I’m so sorry. He never does this.”
Dubh nodded and smiled and kept walking. They all did that.
The path led him past a length of circular fence that surrounded several thatched-roof houses, and Dubh was pulled up short by a memory: running barefoot in the dirt, chasing after his brothers, a woman’s voice calling from the tiny, peaked-roof hut behind him.
The illusion crashed down around him as he moved closer. Surrounding the huts were groups of tourists in colorful clothing, all of them gawking and snapping pictures.
The village was a replica; he knew that. All the same it was dizzying to see it laid out like this.
He kept walking, making his way deeper into the forest. At last the path rounded the corner, and there it was: a flat, moss-green rock set atop two massive boulders. The stones were crooked, leaning, as if the earth beneath them had swelled.
A portal tomb.
There was a crackle in the underbrush, and Dubh moved forward slowly, the hair on the back of his neck prickling.
A man stood just beyond the tomb. He was taller than Dubh, but he had the same unnerving blue eyes, the same blond hair—though his was shorn close to his skull. In contrast to Dubh’s blood-spattered suit, he wore only blue jeans and a faded white T-shirt.
“Olc,” Dubh said. The rush of half-memories made his mouth taste bitter: Competition, anger, a fist in his face. Pain in his jaw. And all of that tied together by sullen loyalty. Blood was blood.
The man in the white T-shirt said nothing, but he swayed on his feet, blinking, shaking his head like a dog with water in its ears. A moment later he seemed to recover himself, and his expression went from confused to furious. He started forward, fists clenched, and Dubh stiffened. Another shuffle, and they both froze as a third man stepped from the trees.
Dubh felt a jolt of anger. He hadn’t noticed him standing there. His instincts were better than that, but he’d been distracted.
The other man didn’t share his brothers’ blue eyes. His were dark, almost black. His hair was the same golden blond, tied back in a ponytail, and he wore a plaid jacket over a black V-neck.
Calma. The third, the oldest.
“I had to pay to get in.” He sounded irritated.
Across from the tomb, Olc gave a derisive snort, looking over Calma’s jacket. “Have you become a lumberjack?”
Calma didn’t answer, only glanced from Olc to Dubh, his face calm. “Brothers,” he finally said. Then he turned to face the stones, and Dubh and Olc did the same.
“I don’t feel anything,” Calma said.
There was distant laughter, and Calma and Dubh both looked around. There was a group of tourists heading down the path toward them.
“This is the right spot.” Calma shook his head. “I remember it.”
“This is bullshit.” Olc slammed his fist into the one of the stones, hard enough that his knuckles cracked. He didn’t flinch, just shook his hand out, dark brows drawn down. In the distance, the group of tourists paused to stare. When he glared in their direction, they turned and hurried the other way down the path.
“What now?” Calma said.
Dubh told his brothers about the woman, about the tongue in the cooler back in his car. About the words he’d remembered, blood and bone, ash and soot.
Calma looked thoughtful. Olc looked blankly at the stones in front of him. How did this already feel routine? Like a worn leather jacket he’d misplaced and rediscovered after a couple hundred years, which still fit perfectly. He wasn’t sure what it meant. If it was a good thing.
Calma nodded, blond brows creased. “That seems right. The women—”
“Witches,” Dubh corrected him, and again, Calma merely nodded.
“They never left. They’re still guarding this place.”
“Then it’s hardly a hunt, is it?” Olc’s voice was scornful. He’d always been the arrogant one. “That makes it too easy.”
“There’s a list.” Calma blinked at Dubh. “But you’ve already started, haven’t you?”
Dubh frowned. This was his mission; this cycle it was his turn.
“The judge was the first,” he said sharply. Neither of them argued, because neither could prove him wrong.
“Do you remember the names?” Calma asked.
Dubh’s expression went dark. “Only some.”
“We need the list,” Calma said. “We need to be sure.”
“I’ll wager she wasn’t even on the list,” Olc sneered. “Don’t tell me you haven’t killed before. That you didn’t do it because you wanted to.”
Dubh ignored him, reaching out a hand, brushing his fingertips along the tomb.
A wave of black crashed into him headfirst. He was on his back suddenly, staring at the tops of the trees as they whirled in dizzying arcs above his head.
A woman’s face, smooth and pale, dark brows and plum lips. Her black hair long and straight. Not just a woman…his mother?
She pushed a book into his hands, insistent, urgent. The cover was stiff leather under his fingers, and the symbol etched into the surface burned like a brand. The graceful crossed pattern, the sharp lines stretching to the edges of the circle…the same symbol that followed him everywhere.
The woman’s voice was warped and distant, someone speaking in a dream. He could see her lips move but couldn’t make out the words.
Her face faded a second later, and the trees stopped spinning.
Dubh dug his fingers into the cool earth beneath him. He could smell pine and the faint scent of cigarettes from the collar of his jacket. Something stirred on the ground beside him, and he turned. Calma’s face was pale. He brushed absently at the front of his jacket as he staggered to his feet. Even Olc looked slightly dazed, leaning against the stones. They’d seen it, too.
Dubh sat up, hands trembling. “The list. It’s in the book.”
CHAPTER NINE
SAMUEL
Saturday morning, the Bible study chat was exploding.
Sam’s phone had been vibrating the entire bike ride to the station. At first he thought it was notifications from his true crime forums—he’d set up the Butcher thread to notify him when anyone posted—but each time he checked, it was another group chat notification.
He finally stopped halfway there and yanked it out of his pocket.
Morgan: What’s going on? Mam drove past the stone circle and it was taped off. Sam?
Jillian: No way it’s a murder. Like anything interesting happens around here.
Morgan: Jill, that’s seriously messed up.
Morgan: @SamuelByrne?
She’d tagged him a few more times, which wasn’t surprising. Morgan’s face had been cut up during the attack, and she was refusing to go anywhere until the wounds healed, which left plenty of time to badger him. He sighed and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He wouldn’t be allowed to update them even if he did learn something. His father would tear him a new one. Plus Sam wasn’t going to be allowed anywhere near the case.