“Mam is losing her mind.” Morgan played with the end of her braid, wrapping it around her fingers. “She barely let me out of the house.”
“My parents, too.” Amanda frowned. “I had to tell them this was an emergency prayer meeting. Like, we’re going to pray away the killer.”
There was another jangle of the bell from the doorway, and a woman entered the soda shop. She had long brown hair in double braids and a round, cheerful face. She smiled and waved at Sam, bangles jingling.
“Morning, Samuel.”
“Good morning to you, Miss Margery. How’s the shop?”
“Oh, you know. Everyone drinking tea from bags these days, the heathens.” She chuckled and patted him on the cheek as she walked past, and Sam grinned.
Margery Davis had been friends with his mother years back, though they had a falling-out when Margery had been asked to leave church. Still, she used to slip him chocolates whenever she saw him, and she seemed fond enough of him.
“You have a nice day, now.”
Margery headed toward the back of the shop, where she began talking to Mrs. O’Neal. The second she was out of earshot, Amanda leaned over the table.
“That’s the woman who wrote that article about Christian magic, isn’t it?” She darted a look at Morgan, who arched her brows haughtily.
“I heard about that. She’s probably a witch or something. You shouldn’t be talking to her.”
“Shut up,” Sam said to Morgan, who only gave him an overly sweet smile.
Sam’s phone buzzed, and he snatched it up, disappointed to see it was a message from his mother.
“Still waiting on Dayna, Romeo?” Darius grinned.
“You know, Samuel,” Morgan said, “you should probably let that girl do her own thing. I heard her mam is back from camp. Did she mention that?”
Sam shrugged, suddenly irritated. “She didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t press her.”
“I’ll add her and Dayna to the prayer list. Hopefully the reverend brings her to church.”
“Dayna doesn’t want to go to church.” Darius made a show of examining his nails. “Because Sam turned her gay.”
Sam shot him a scowl, and Morgan said plaintively, “Darius, don’t.”
Before Sam could reply, Amanda nudged him and pointed at the TV. He glanced up, startled to see Breaking News in huge block letters.
Morgan was the one who asked Mrs. O’Neal to turn it up, since Sam was too busy staring at the box on the right-hand side of the screen, which showed a picture of a huge, castle-like building beside a lake, with the caption Serial Killer Resurfaces?
“…Katherine O’Brien, a professional poet and mother of two, was found outside popular tourist spot Kylemore Abbey. More startling still, the symbol at the scene is one associated with the killer that England once dubbed the Butcher of Manchester. This is the second murder in as many days, and according to our sources, the symbol has been found at both sites. The question all of us are asking is, is the Butcher back? And if so, why haven’t we heard from the gardai on the matter?”
“Oh my god.” Sam could feel the blood draining out of his face.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Morgan said automatically, but she, too, was staring at the TV, eyes wide.
“Mrs. O’Brien.” Caleb’s voice trembled slightly. “My ma is friends with her. I mean…was.”
“The Butcher.” Amanda’s face was pale. “Sam, is that true? Did they find that at the scene?”
Sam shrugged, feeling his stomach sink as his friends turned to look at him. “I have no idea. I didn’t even know there was a second murder.”
That, more than anything, was what filled him with dread. Not just that there was a second murder, but that it was too soon. It shouldn’t have happened yet.
The Butcher had an MO. Sam knew it inside and out, and this wasn’t right. There was supposed to be at least two weeks between each victim.
“I can’t believe the Butcher is here in Nowheresville,” Darius said. “Aren’t there better places for his reign of terror?”
“Don’t sound so casual about it, you freak,” Jillian said.
“Easy for him.” Amanda’s gaze was fixed on the TV still, even though the reporter was now talking about crops dying. “The Butcher only kills women.”
Sam glanced around the table, at his friends’ pale faces and wide eyes. Nerves gnawed at his stomach. There was something off about this. Something that made cold dread ripple through his insides.
Why was the Butcher escalating?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MEINER
It had been one of those unnerving, feverish nights, where she wasn’t certain if she’d slept or not. It brought back memories of other nights, her insides buzzing with that awful, pent-up energy. Meiner had taken her pill before bed, which always dulled the anxiety enough to sleep, so it wasn’t that. It was simply her mind spinning in circles.
After she’d dropped Dayna off she’d ended up lying awake, her brain flicking from one image to the next. Cora’s blank expression during the ritual. The Callighans, their heads bent together. The look in Grandma King’s eye as she moved toward her.
Memories of the dark corners of her childhood home.
Her temper kept flaring. It felt like her blood was boiling in her veins, until she was literally sweating from the heat of it. Several times during the night she gave in, tearing off her sheets, pacing the length of the room. She wanted to destroy something. Snatch up the lamp from the bedside table and dash it to the floor, lash out at her reflection in the vanity mirror and watch it fracture under her fists.
But even with everything else, Dayna’s freckled face kept popping up. The whole thing was confusing. Dayna had been so irritating, and the thought of her ascending still made her skin feel prickly, even now. But in spite of all that, she’d been dangerously close to kissing her last night.
What the hell had she been thinking?
Out in the kitchen, she dropped onto one of the chairs at the long table. The surface was crowded with empty bowls stained with batter and dirty wooden spoons. Reagan was at the stove, nodding along with the rock music blasting from the radio above the fridge. She looked up when Meiner came in.
“Bronagh brought charm necklaces for us this morning. Yours and Dayna’s are there.”
Meiner glanced down, surprised. Resting on the lid of the butter dish was a pair of bone charms on leather cords. She picked one up, running her fingers over the smooth surface of the shield knot etched onto the coin-sized disk. “Protection charm?”
“Aye, for the joint reading this afternoon.” Reagan plucked hers from beneath her shirt collar, letting it dangle between her finger and thumb. “Doesn’t exactly go with the rest of my accessories.” She fingered the black stone in her choker and grinned when she noticed Meiner looking. “It’s supposed to be from the Willamette meteorite, which would make it a couple billion years old. It’s probably fake, but I thought it was pretty.”
“It looks cool, even if it’s not a billion years old.” Meiner dropped the necklace beneath her shirt, feeling the cold surface of the charm settle onto her chest and slowly begin to warm.