She almost broke off as something cold and damp touched her shoulder, crumbling down her arm. The scent of freshly turned earth broke around her, like dirt after the rain. She forced herself to keep chanting, to keep her voice strong even when cold water splashed over her face. She spat it out and continued, a mixture of excitement and dread building in her gut.
Something touched her right cheek. The smooth tip of the stone traced circles over her face, leaving warm liquid in a pattern on her cheek, trailing the smell of rust and pennies. Cora kept chanting, her lip curled in disgust.
Next came a sharp, hot pain on the exposed skin of her right shoulder. She gasped, trying not to flinch. And still she chanted, her voice high and strained. The heat retreated but her arm continued to burn, and tears prickled behind her eyelids.
Cora chanted the words until they felt seared in her mind. She didn’t open her eyes when there was a horrible crash, and the wind picked up, howling through the trees, whipping her hair across her face. She raised her voice and continued.
Cool spots of rain began dotting her face, her neck, her arms. It washed away the film of dirt on her shoulders, the blood on her cheek, and the pain in her arm. She felt something then, an electric tingle that started in the soles of her feet and crept up slowly. The feeling swelled and grew until it took up the entirety of her insides, and she felt it would burst from her skin in a shower of sparks. Like the flint, she had the potential to ignite. To set the whole world on fire.
A hoarse voice cut through her reverie. “Caorthannach. Firespitter. Mother of the Flame, come to your disciple.”
Cora’s eyes snapped open. Grandma King was sitting in the middle of the picnic blanket, folded forward on her knees, a smoldering stick in one hand slowly going out in the rain. Her face was twisted in a biting smile and her eyes glittered. Cora would not have blinked if the old woman had shrunk in on herself and turned into a bat or a fox in that moment. Anything seemed possible.
Firespitter. Mother of the Flame.
Cora had heard those names before. Caorthannach. Mother of demons, and of the devil himself, if you believed the Christian version of events.
It should have scared her, but the feeling brewing in her stomach wasn’t fear, not exactly. All she could think about was the kind of power this goddess must have.
The kind she might grant her followers…
“Now eat.”
Cora looked down. The box with gold trim sat open between them. It was not leather inside, she realized, but dried meat. She reached out, hand hovering over the box. Her gaze flicked from the shriveled strip of meat to the unpleasant smile on Grandma King’s face.
Cora fished in the box and took the meat, raising it to her lips. For a moment she considered casting it away. Going back to the safety of the house. Leaving all the questions unasked and unanswered.
The King Witch’s smile grew, stretching across her face. A challenge.
Cora squeezed her eyes shut.
She shoved the jerky past her lips. The taste of salt crashed onto her tongue. The meat was tough and sinewy between her teeth, and Cora nearly gagged at the sensation.
The patter of rain on the leaves slipped into the silence between them, and Grandma King’s rictus smile stretched wider. “Now say it once more.”
She did, stumbling on the words. Her mouth tasted of salt and copper, and she wanted to spit into the grass between them.
Then lightning struck, nearly knocking her backward. Something electric pulsed through her limbs, stiffened her muscles. Cora gasped as power coursed through her body. She was lit from the inside out. Her eyes rolled back, and she could see only white for a moment, and then into the nothingness someone spoke:
“I see you, witchling.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
DAYNA
The house was dark, and Dayna shuffled through the entryway and into the hallway, past the dining room, where the furniture loomed like dusty ghosts. As Dayna moved into the kitchen, there was a second, startling flood of light, and she jumped.
“Dad?”
“Dayna, I didn’t hear you come in.”
A woman’s voice. Dayna paused, blinking. When she could see clearly enough, she made out the blurry form of Fiona Walsh in the doorway.
Dayna frowned, still squinting against the glare. “Were you waiting up for me?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Fiona’s voice was soft, and she rubbed at her arms, though Dayna didn’t think it was particularly cold in the house. “The bed in the guest room is nice.” She hesitated. “It’s not what I’m used to, though.”
The potion was still burning through her, making her brave enough to ask questions she probably shouldn’t. “What was camp like? What did they do up there?”
Her breath seemed to stick in her throat as she waited for an answer, and she found herself pressing a hand to her chest.
Fiona blinked. It was hard to gauge her expression in the half-light, but Dayna thought she saw her smile drop, just for a second. “It was…fine. Lots of scripture readings, prayer meetings, that sort of thing.”
She gripped the strap of her shoulder bag, knuckles white. “And that’s it?”
Fiona hesitated. “I…I don’t remember.”
She was rubbing her arms faster now, and Dayna stepped farther into the kitchen, slightly alarmed. Her gaze dropped down to where Fiona’s sleeve had ridden up slightly. There was a series of shadowy bruises on her pale skin.
Dayna frowned.
There was no way it was from the reverend, unless she bruised immediately, so most likely they were from camp. An ugly suspicion had been growing since she’d first met Fiona, and it was slowly turning into something worse. A hot, toxic anger eating at her insides.
“Hey, we don’t have to talk about it. Let’s get a cup of tea, okay?”
The rubbing slowed and then stopped, and Fiona’s arms dropped to her sides. “Tea would be nice.”
Dayna flipped the kitchen light on, darting a glance at her mother. Fiona Walsh’s face was pale, and there were dark bruises under her eyes. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in weeks.
Dayna felt slightly queasy. She knew what it was like not to sleep well. But this seemed like something more.
Dayna set the kettle on the stove and stretched up to pull a pair of clay mugs from the cupboard. “What’s with the floodlight? Did Dad install it?”
“This afternoon, yes. And there’s a camera at the front now. He said I shouldn’t go outside without him, because of the murder.” Fiona lowered herself delicately into the nearest chair, folding her arms in front of her. Her body language was timid, like someone expecting a blow at any moment.
There was abuse at camp. The thought was sickening, but she was utterly sure of it. Probably all in the name of their God and helping Fiona “get better.” On top of that her father was continuing it, locking Fiona in, controlling her. Installing floodlights and cameras.
What the hell was that about? Was he expecting Fiona to try to escape or something?
Her insides were burning, anger making her chest tight. She wanted to storm down the hall and pound on her father’s door. Wake him up just to yell at him. To ask who the hell he thought he was. He wasn’t a shrink; he didn’t know how to deal with mental health problems. He was just going to do more damage.