There was only silence now, save for the sound of the rain on the grass, and the witches’ feverish mumbling. It was Brenna who found it. She moved a hand over the stone in the center, and something flickered under her palm.
A flash of rust red, and then slowly it seeped to the surface, a shape painted on the gray stone. It was strange, similar to a pentacle, but not one she’d seen before. There was no star inside, more like a complex pattern of crossed lines. It looked Celtic. And old.
Meiner couldn’t hold back a shiver. It seemed sharp somehow, like the symbol itself might draw blood. It was vaguely familiar, too, though she couldn’t place it. When she glanced over she was surprised to see Grandma King staring at the symbol with wide eyes. Her face had gone pale, and for a moment it looked like she was about to speak, but she merely shook her head.
Meiner frowned at her.
“Does anyone recognize it?” Reagan asked.
“It’s familiar.” Dayna looked frustrated. “Damn it, why do I feel like I should know this?”
“You’re a little young.” Bronagh’s voice was heavy, and when they looked over at her she sighed. “It’s a symbol I haven’t seen in years, and one I’d hoped never to see again.” She glanced sideways at Dayna. “That murder-obsessed ex-boyfriend of yours may have shown it to you.”
Dayna’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my god. It’s a signature, isn’t it?”
Cora looked annoyed. “A what?”
“A serial killer’s mark,” Bronagh explained. “Specifically the Butcher of Manchester’s. He was all over the news years and years ago. They never caught him.”
In the heavy silence that followed, Brenna let her hand drop, and the lines on the stone faded. Reagan nudged Dayna. “I’d say your ravens were definitely a bad omen.”
“They’re not my ravens,” Dayna said, but her brow was creased with worry, her fingers tangled in the ends of her hair as she wrapped strands around them. Her obvious anxiety was unsettling to watch, and Meiner let her hand drift to her pocket, fingers closing over the reassuring shape of the pill bottle.
“Shit, Meiner, your gran.”
Meiner turned at Cora’s voice, realizing her grandmother was already halfway across the lawn toward the parking lot. Even from there they could hear her muttering angrily. “Those damn kids, trying to leave me behind.”
It took Meiner a moment to realize where her grandmother was headed.
She sighed, glancing over at Cora, who looked exasperated. Then they both went after the old woman before she could climb into the van with the tourists.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DAYNA
“Symbols in blood. How clichéd.”
Reagan tapped her pencil on the flower-patterned teacup in front of her, frowning at her laptop—a battered hand-me-down with a chaotic assortment of rock-band stickers and NASA logos—where she’d pulled up a picture of the Butcher’s calling card. This one was carved into a wall, but it was undeniably the same symbol. “You’d think someone offing witches would be more original.”
“Why would a serial killer go after witches?” Cora demanded. “How does he even know who to target?”
Bronagh looked grim. “The only thing I know about him comes from the news, I’m afraid. I wasn’t familiar with any of his victims.”
Dayna stared at the picture on the screen, gut churning. The ravens had been disturbing enough, but this was far worse. Grandma King’s warning about more witches dying had raised the hair on the back of her neck, and now it seemed chillingly accurate. The very term serial implied—no, required—more deaths. She kept glancing from Yemi and Reagan to the Callighans, trying not to picture losing any of them.
As far as she knew, there were few choices aside from her coven in town. A couple of hedge witches, maybe, a few people who dabbled in tarot in secret. But the real power in Carman was all here in this house. If someone was aiming to kill actual witches, the women in her coven might as well have giant targets on their backs.
“Okay, so, this serial killer.” Cora glanced around at the others. “What do we actually know about him?”
There was a beat of silence as they stared at the screen, punctuated by the gentle clink of Brenna stirring sugar into her tea.
“We know he’s got a Wikipedia page.” Meiner held up her phone. “There’s probably a dozen articles linked here.”
“We know he’s killing again, abi? And that he’s able to tell who’s a witch and who isn’t.” Reagan toyed with her choker, fingering the black stone in the front.
“Maybe he’s a witch himself,” Dayna said. Her thoughts were racing as she tried to imagine what that would mean. A killer who used magic was a terrifying thought, the twisted psyche of a serial killer mixed with the power of dark magic. She shuddered.
“Can’t just be that.” Reagan frowned. “First the ravens, and then this morning the news was going on about dead cows. Omens like that require serious juju, right?” She raised her brows at Bronagh, who nodded reluctantly.
“I’ll get the scrying bowl.” Yemi vanished into the living room.
“And I’ll pray to the great oracle, Google.” Reagan pulled the laptop back over.
Minutes later they’d assembled a makeshift research post at the long oak table, scattering notebooks and pencils between brass teapots and sugar tins, Reagan’s computer set up on the metal tea tray to protect it from crumbs. The older witches were scrying and reading cards, save for Grandma King, who seemed to have lapsed into a kind of dazed silence, staring out the window above the sink. Meanwhile, Dayna, Cora, and Meiner watched over Reagan’s shoulder as she pulled up article after article. Several times, Faye looked up from the shallow dish she was examining and muttered darkly about “witchlings these days.”
After nearly an hour Reagan smacked her finger down on the exit button, her voice irritated. “There are so many articles, it’s going to take hours to read through. And there’s no hint of magic in any of these. He just seems like…a regular person.”
“Oh sure. Killed people, diced them up, carved symbols all over the walls…” Cora said. “Totally regular behavior.”
Reagan rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. He’s got no magic.”
Dayna shifted, straightening up, her back protesting her hunched position. She was standing close enough that her arm brushed Meiner’s, and the taller girl glanced at her, face unreadable. Dayna felt herself blush, which sent a flash of annoyance through her. “Um, do you mind backing up?”
“Well, excuse me, Your Majesty.” Meiner took a step back, holding her hands out in front of her. “Didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”
Dayna narrowed her eyes. “It’s not my problem you don’t have any sense of personal space.”
“That’s not it at all. It’s just that you’re so short I didn’t notice you there.” That annoying, cocky grin was back.
Yemi cleared her throat pointedly, and Dayna paused, feeling her face burn. The others were clearly pretending not to notice, save for Reagan, who looked as though she were trying to hold back laughter.