Meiner’s temper had surged so suddenly she’d sucked a breath in and held it, forcing herself to relax. Of course she’d bring that up.
Now they stood in the middle of a scrubby field surrounded by a cluster of slate-colored rocks. The stone circle amplified magic and allowed the practitioner a more direct line to power. The gods were only a whisper away, and any other time she would have been charged with excitement. It was a place of power, sacred, even.
But at the moment it just seemed…wet.
The sky overhead was gray, and there was a constant steady drizzle. It hardly seemed enough to warrant an umbrella, and yet the rain seeped through Meiner’s thin jacket. It twisted her hair into damp locks, leaving her shivering.
Beside her, Cora shifted, reaching up to pull the hood of her raincoat over her face. Meiner silently hated her for being more prepared.
Reagan exchanged a grumpy look with Dayna and tugged her knit cap farther down over her brows. “What are we supposed to find here? A chalk outline? A flashing sign that says, The murder was here?”
“That would be helpful.” Dayna kicked at the wet grass, crossing her arms over her chest. Droplets of water dotted her dark hair and ran down her face and neck.
When Dayna looked up and caught Meiner staring, she scowled, and Meiner smirked back, lifting an eyebrow. Sure enough, Dayna huffed and turned away.
Okay, she’d admit it, Dayna might be sort of cute.
But she was annoying as hell. And she seemed to overreact to pretty much everything. That was all Meiner needed, another version of Cora jumping down her throat all the time.
“What are we looking for? I mean, aside from a bunch of pointy rocks?” Cora demanded.
No one answered. Yemi, who clutched her metal tea thermos, looked around warily, as if she expected the murderer to pop out from behind one of the stones, and the Callighan women had drifted away from the group. Brenna and Faye were talking in low voices, heads bent together, and Bronagh was standing very still, face tilted to the sky.
Grandma King picked her way carefully around the standing stones, staring down at the flat gray rocks. She was turning a cigarette over in her hands, though she hadn’t yet lit it.
Meiner frowned, trying to study her grandmother’s face discreetly. How much of this was Gran’s magic guiding her, and how much was the disease claiming her mind? Maybe they were chasing something that didn’t exist.
It was all well and good to sit around and stare at the death card, or make dire predictions about coming doom, but what did they actually have to go on? Only that a witch had died. That meant nothing; it meant that witches had enemies. Sometimes lots of them. That was evident enough by the town’s reaction to her grandmother. They’d stopped for brunch on the way over, and one of the women in the diner had gone sheet white at the mere sight of her, a fact Grandma King either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
The rumors about her gran were ridiculous. Hyperbolic and hysterical, bedtime tales told to witchlings to scare them straight. If the witches in this town were stupid enough to believe them, it wasn’t her coven’s problem.
Of course, she wouldn’t be that surprised if someone wanted to murder Gran next. It was clear she’d made enemies in this town, including her ex-coven.
She glanced over at Bronagh. Gran wouldn’t tell her what had happened—likely she wouldn’t remember, or would decide it was “none of her damn business”—but Meiner resolved to get Bronagh alone at some point, to ask her exactly why Gran left.
After all of this was over, that is, and they were finished standing around damp fields staring at rocks.
She grumbled under her breath, mood surging even lower. The tightness in her chest turned to a slow burn as she clenched and unclenched her fists, trying to wrestle her temper down, to keep her expression flat and unaffected.
Likely she was standing here in the pissing rain for nothing. She sighed and balled her fists in her pockets, wishing she was somewhere warm. Maybe somewhere with coffee.
Somehow it made her mood even worse to see Dayna and Reagan had inched closer, and Dayna had curled an arm around her friend, rubbing at Reagan’s arms as they huddled together, stamping their feet and shivering.
“Hot tea, love?” Yemi raised her brows at Meiner, offering the thermos.
Normally she would have turned it down, but now she only hesitated a moment before accepting. She was freezing. Just wrapping her hands around the warm surface was a relief. A little self-consciously, she poured a bit of the steaming liquid into the cup Yemi handed her. Yemi smiled and patted her arm before turning away, and Meiner cleared her throat, temper fizzling out.
There was something about the woman that made a lump rise in her throat. Maybe the way she fussed over her daughter and Dayna, mothering both of them. Or the warmth of her personality. It wasn’t possible to be any less like Meiner’s grandmother.
“I’ll take some, thanks,” Dayna said, and when Meiner handed the thermos over, Dayna’s fingers brushed hers. It was the lightest touch, but it was enough to send an electric current over Meiner’s skin. When she took the thermos, Meiner turned away, annoyed.
Had Dayna done that deliberately?
There was a loud ping, followed by the sound of Dayna grumbling, and Reagan asked, “Sam again? Ask if he’s still hanging out with that Bible study.”
“He is.”
Meiner shoved her hands deeper in her pockets, watching them as they bent their heads over Dayna’s phone. “What a dick,” Reagan said, still shivering and shifting from foot to foot.
Was Sam an ex, maybe? The way Dayna acted, something must have actually gone down. And what had Reagan meant by Bible study?
“You know, I can hex him for you if you like.” Faye had wandered back over, pulling her hood lower over her eyes.
“Faye, no,” Brenna scolded her. “We talked about this.”
“Just a little hex”—Faye’s smile was sharp, and Meiner wondered if the woman was actually joking—“to make his tongue shrivel in his mouth.”
“You terrify me,” Reagan said.
The distant sound of a car door slamming jerked her head up. When she turned back to the lot, there was a green minivan parked next to her car.
“Ah, that will be her now.” Grandma King was staring at the van as well. She pulled herself up taller, shoulders square in her black sweater. She looked a little like she had before. Commanding, instead of lost and confused.
Meiner’s stomach twisted. “Who?”
A family was spilling out of the van, a couple and two children. The driver emerged more slowly, a short, round woman with a bristly ponytail.
Grandma King didn’t immediately answer as they watched the family approach. Finally, when they were less than ten feet away, she said in a low voice, “The one who found the body.”
Meiner’s eyes widened. Now that they were closer, she could see that the woman’s red fleece vest had Shamrock Tours embroidered across the pocket. Underneath, the vest proclaimed her to be Deborah.
The kids ran forward, colorful rubber boots flashing pink and red against the damp grass. The parents followed, studying the stone circles with vague interest. The tour guide hung back, approaching almost timidly, eyes searching the field.
“Shamrock Tours, is it?” Gran smiled.
“Oh aye. We do tours of all the sights in this area.” Deborah cleared her throat. Her gaze kept flickering to the nearest stone circle. “I better get to it. Feel free to listen in.”