Had hoped it was gone.
Just one more reason to ascend and get the hell out as soon as possible.
Finally Cora let out a breath. “That thing on her cheek…it’s the tree of life. She’s right.”
“Aye, of course I am.” Grandma King’s eyes snapped open. “The woman’s had her ascension.”
“And then been murdered.” Meiner pressed her lips together. Her throat felt tight.
The mark was something you got the day of your ceremony, the one supposed to connect you to the god of your choosing. To give you a direct line to their power and make you a full witch. The same ceremony she’d been waiting to do since she’d hit sixteen and become eligible.
She swallowed, mouth tasting bitter.
Cora was still staring in the side mirror. “Root ink only lasts a few days,” she said shortly.
Meiner nodded. “Someone offed her three days ago at most.”
“So she was a witch. Now what?”
They both looked back at Grandma King. The old woman was leaning against the window, her cheek mashed against the glass. She’d already begun snoring gently.
It appeared for now, she and Cora were on their own.
CHAPTER FIVE
SAMUEL
When he first heard the call it was choppy, half-lost in a burst of static.
“…code one-eight-six…circle…” The voice dissolved again, and Sam shot forward, nearly strangling himself with his headphones. The cracker box he’d been reaching for thumped to the floor, crumbs spraying across the carpet.
He twisted the knob frantically, until the channel was clear. “…on my way.” The answering voice was deep and gravelly, immediately identifiable as his father’s.
They’d been let out early after the bird incident, and he’d spent the rest of the day listening to chatter, hoping to hear something about it. His hand kept drifting to his face, fingers smoothing over the scratch on his cheek. He remembered feeling the carpet burn his palms, the screams and the thunder of wings, the way Dayna had curled up in the shelter of his arms. And her face…the way she’d looked at the dead bird…
He turned his attention back to the scanner on his dresser. He’d borrowed it from the back room of the station a couple of years ago. It was old and had been in need of repair, and his father had never noticed it was gone.
He glanced at the door, next to where his phone was balanced on his dresser blaring praise music. The guilt had faded over the years, because he wasn’t really hurting anyone with his obsession. If his mother happened to think he was in here reading the Bible, he wasn’t about to disabuse her of the notion.
He squinted at the radio.
One-eight-six didn’t make sense. One-eight-six wasn’t animal control, it was…He wracked his brain, frowning, fingers drumming on the top of the desk. Was it a B and E?
Wait, 186 was homicide.
That couldn’t be right. He’d been listening to the channel for nearly a year now. Carman was not a murder town. It was a cat-up-a-tree town. It was illegal parking. Or, if he got really lucky, he might hear a call about the organist locking herself out of the church, or a family feud that had got out of hand. Before the last remaining pub had been shut down, sometimes he’d hear them respond to a drunk and disorderly, but even those had all but disappeared.
No, Carman did not have murderers.
Still, he shifted in his chair, glancing over at the door. Circle…that had to mean the stone circles just outside town. It was a ten-minute bike ride, tops.
The code probably meant something different. That someone had…stolen a sheep or something.
It was dark and wet outside, and he tugged his hood farther down over his eyes before biking out into the storm, squinting against the downpour, his binoculars knocking against his chest. The rain pelted his face, stinging the cut on his cheek, reminding him that he’d nearly called Dayna three or four times that evening. The urge hit him once again, and he blew out a miserable breath.
He just wanted to hear her voice. As weird and terrifying as this morning had been, feeling her in his arms again had been good.
Of course, whenever he thought about Dayna the guilt returned, flaring up in the pit of his stomach. Their breakup had been confusing and emotional, and there was a kind of awkwardness between them now. They were still friends, though. There was a still a chance.
He pushed the thought aside, concentrating on making it up the hill. His legs burned, and he lowered his head as the wind lashed sheets of rain at him. This was probably completely insane, biking out in the pouring rain to spy on a small-town misdemeanor.
Once he came over the hill, he pulled his bike to the side, rocks popping under the tires. There was an outcrop of scruffy bushes around the field that held the stone circles, where he intended to do his spying. Halfway there he halted, gaze caught by flashes of blue and white. Two police cars blocked off the road, and a third was parked in front of the stone circles.
The area around the stones had been roped off with yellow tape, black letters spelling out Police Line, Do Not Cross. Inside the tape a half dozen men worked, some taking notes and pictures, others helping to erect a wide canvas tent over a tarp on the ground. Lamps had been set up around the perimeter, painting everything in stark yellow light.
Sam stayed frozen where he was, fingers biting into the rubber grips of his handles. He’d been right. One-eight-six was a homicide.
This was almost too good to be true.
Breathing hard, he fished into the pocket of his rain jacket, yanking out his binoculars.
The scene was blurry at first; he had to adjust for the rain. When it finally cleared he could make out gardai crowding around the tarp, one snapping pictures as another lifted it off the ground. There was someone on the grass in the middle of the stones, arms and legs splayed. It was too far to see their face, but they weren’t moving. A body. The thought made his stomach lurch.
On the other side of the stone circles stood his father. Sam watched the sergeant shift onto his heels, smoothing a hand over his face. Even at this distance he could tell his father was agitated, and he kept looking at the farthest stone circle.
Sam shifted the binoculars slightly, trying to refocus on the rocks. It took a few frustrating seconds, as he hadn’t used the binoculars since his bird-watching phase two years ago, and it was hard to make out anything clearly through the rain.
Finally he found it. There it was, a faint shape that grew sharper the longer he stared. It was drawn in a kind of horrible rust red, all sharp angles and twisted lines. It took him one beat, two, to digest what he was seeing, and then he could feel the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
He knew exactly what it meant.
Sam jerked his bike upright and slung a leg over the seat, turning back for the house. He had to get home and start taking notes right away.
This was going to be historic.
CHAPTER SIX
DAYNA
If Sage Widow was Dayna’s second favorite place, the coven house was top of her list. The building itself was overly large, in a comfortable, sprawling kind of way. A farmhouse lived in so thoroughly that every corner had someone’s personal mark. It was such a contrast with the reverend’s cold, spacious home, which was filled with a mixture of sad thrift store furniture. A proverbial elephant graveyard of unloved sofas and and sagging armchairs.