Her fingers shook, and she gripped the cigarette tighter. She was sick of this. They shouldn’t be fighting; they were the same. Both abandoned by relatives—Cora’s aunt and Meiner’s mother—both power-hungry and driven. It made sense they should be together, with Cora as the rightful leader of the coven.
This was her destiny. Once she had enough power she could prove that to Meiner.
She took a long drag of the cigarette, the orange tip flaring. The taste and smell of smoke was an assault on her senses, enough to fill her up and banish the ebb and flow of the whispers. The bell over the door jangled beside her. Cora looked up, releasing a thin stream through her nostrils.
A man and woman stumbled out of the pub, the woman wobbling precariously on a pair of thin stilettos.
The woman’s companion looked past her slouched form, bloodshot eyes combing briefly down Cora’s body before he smiled and turned away, saying something to the woman. Cora wasn’t paying attention; as soon as the man had locked eyes with her, the whispers had surged.
She winced, cigarette falling to the pavement, sparks scattering over the sidewalk. The hum of voices all spoke at once. And then, just as abruptly, they dropped off. There was only one left. The soft, sibilant voice of the woman in the woods. Caorthannach.
You could have him. Take him.
Cora’s head snapped up. She stared at the couple making their slow, shuffling way toward the parking lot.
The voice hissed over the rush of the blood in her ears, the pulse of her heart.
Do it, witchling.
What had the goddess said in the forest? She needed power to face what was coming. She could do this. Had to do it, for her coven.
Cora started forward, sweat breaking on her brow, slicking the palm of her hand as she dipped into her pocket and felt the slender shape of the dagger in its sheath. She hadn’t been sure why she’d brought the knife that morning; it had been a split-second decision as she’d gone past the dresser. The light overhead had slid along the golden snakes on the handle, making the gems of their eyes glitter. She’d picked it up and pressed it into her palm. The weight felt right in her hand, so she’d slipped it into her bag.
Now, as she followed the couple into the parking lot, it still felt right. But the thought of it…of plunging the blade into a man’s chest. It would not be like cutting paper, or watermelon, or even slicing into chicken at dinner. This was living flesh…a human being.
“I don’t know if I can do this.” She hadn’t meant to mumble it out loud, and as soon as the words slipped past her lips she flinched. The goddess stirred in the back of her mind, and heat crashed through her, burning her insides. Cora clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain.
You will. And then, You must.
There was a flash behind her eyes, and then she was seeing a second set of images. Cora started, drawing a sharp breath. Yes, she could still see the parking lot, half empty, surrounded by sad little shrubs. She could still see the man staggering down the center, heading toward a black pickup truck. But she could also see images laid over that. She could see the black truck careening down the road, veering wildly onto the sidewalk. The wide, white eyes of a woman in a tan jacket, grocery bags in both hands, as she turned, too slowly. Too late.
Cora didn’t hear her scream, but she could see the woman’s mouth open wide, a second before the truck was on top of her.
She shook her head, frantic, jerking herself out of the vision. She braced herself against the hood of the car in the space beside her, head spinning, breath ragged in her throat.
Cora had scried before. She’d even had her share of prophetic dreams, but this had been…something different.
Go, the voice in her head hissed, and she stumbled forward. Dazed, she reached into her pocket just as the man climbed into his truck. The man’s companion was struggling to leverage herself onto the high step of the passenger side. She giggled and fell back.
Cora wrapped her hand around the hilt of the dagger, smoothed shaking fingers over the scales. She took a step forward.
The man snapped something at the woman.
Cora took another step forward, the knife burning against her fingers. It felt like a warning, or an admonishment.
She could do this, couldn’t she? For the woman on the street. For the goddess. For herself.
The drunk woman laughed again and finally managed to mount the step. She’d barely shut the door when the man started the truck, slamming into reverse without bothering to look in his rearview mirror. Cora gasped, stumbling back as the truck came within a few feet of her, then peeled away, leaving a smoking rubber stain on the concrete.
She stayed frozen, gaping after the truck as it disappeared down the street.
Rage blazed through her a moment later, followed by furious heat, and Cora staggered forward, a scream of pain tearing from her lips. She swung wildly, fist crashing into the window of the nearest car, which broke under her knuckles, sending a spiderweb of cracks spreading out toward the edges.
She turned on her heel, stomping across the lot, ignoring the group of men who’d come out of the pub and were staring after her openmouthed.
She’d failed. Maybe it was the heat blazing through her, or the fact that the rage that drove her was not hers alone, but something told her the goddess would not have patience for long.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DAYNA
Dayna didn’t sleep that night.
She’d snuck in late, and Fiona hadn’t been waiting up for her this time. Her father was in bed, too, thank god—she was still technically grounded, and he was probably furious with her.
She spent half the night running searches on her laptop, poring over the same articles on Carman again and again, going through lists of ancient Celtic symbols—she swore if she closed her eyes her vision would dance with them. Between this she ran searches on the phrase widow incorporated and found nothing helpful—which wasn’t surprising, considering that the sergeant had likely done the same. When she did attempt to sleep she couldn’t stop thinking about Sam, the guilt and panic in his expression. His stammered excuses. It felt like the bottom had dropped out of her stomach.
There was no excuse for what he’d done. And to think she’d felt guilty about brushing him off when he’d asked to get back together. Hell, she’d even considered it, however briefly.
What if she had taken him back and then found out? The mere thought made anger burn her insides.
Her wound seemed to throb with each heartbeat, and by the time she went to bed she was too keyed up to sleep. Her brain was more than happy to fall into the familiar patterns of feverish obsession. She was breathing just fine. Deep and even. So why did her chest feel tight? Was it hot in here? Were her breaths getting shallower? It was just the panic.
She tried all her usual tricks. Thinking of a favorite book or movie for each letter of the alphabet, mentally walking through the layout of the coven house, and even trying to remember every detail of her good memories from last summer. The lunch they’d had in the apple orchard for Reagan’s birthday, or the time they’d all jammed into Reagan’s minivan to head to the farmers market and Bronagh had left all her Werther’s wrappers on the floor. Faye had lectured her about it the entire way back, and somehow the wrappers had mysteriously ended up in her pockets.