She was running out of time.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
MEINER
“Okay, so we get he’s choosing the witches from a book. The question is why. Why kill witches specifically?”
Meiner sighed, stretching her legs out beneath the table, which earned her a sympathetic glance from Dayna. The other girl had been shifting in her seat, rubbing her arm just under the dog bite while she pored over her books, sandwich in hand.
She regretted not raiding the cupboards for pain meds before she left, for Dayna’s arm, but also because her head was pounding. They’d been at the library for hours now, and hadn’t made much progress.
Not that she was doing particularly well at concentrating. She kept glancing over at Dayna, at her profile, the fine lines of her features. At her eyelashes, which were ridiculously long, flickering slightly as she read, the freckles that dotted her cheeks. She could still remember the taste of Dayna’s mouth. The way she felt pressed against her, the smell of her hair.
Shit. Meiner forced her attention back to the book in her lap.
A second later Dayna sighed. “We’ve got nothing. A couple symbols we don’t know, one that might mean judge, and vague guesses who might be next.” She trailed off.
“I swear it sounds like some kind of dark ritual, the way he’s taking body parts.” Reagan scowled at the laptop. She had the same article up and was scanning it over again. “But there’s no hint at what it might be.”
“This blog post talks about Carman making deals with humans and then screwing them over. Typical shady sorceress stuff,” Cora said. “Tricky bitch. Still nothing helpful, though this article mentions her lover was banished, too. Apparently she was knocking boots with Angus Og, god of love. A good lay, I imagine.” She wiggled her brows, and Meiner rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
It occurred to her suddenly that she hadn’t actually wanted to murder Cora for most of the morning. It reminded her of when Cora had first moved in, when they’d been allies, not enemies, bonded by mutual hatred and angst. And then the training had started, and they’d become more than just hurt, angry teens—they’d been witchlings.
Until Gran had begun to lose herself, and the ever-present anger suddenly no longer had a clear direction. Their allyship had slowly twisted after that, into something new. Something ugly.
How long had it been since they’d been on their own, away from Gran for any extended period of time?
She hated to admit it, even to herself, but it was possible the anger she directed at Cora was…well, misdirected. The thought sent a flash of irritation through her. Had Gran known that was going to happen? Or worse, had she planned it that way?
Only the rustle of pages filled the silence now, and Meiner forced herself to push these thoughts away.
Another witch would be next, a fourth victim. The judge, the poet, and Margery…
Meiner sat up straighter on the bench. “What was it Margery said again? Something about witches and saints?”
Dayna grimaced, but Reagan answered for them. “‘First we were gods…gods, and then saints, and then witches.’”
“Gods and saints.” Meiner snapped her book closed. It felt like there were loose bits of a puzzle rattling around in her brain. All the pieces were there; they just had to figure out how they fit. “Hold on, who are the gods that put Carman away again?”
“The first is Aoi Mac Ollamain.” Reagan leaned back against the window seat, then winced and rubbed her lower back. “God of poetry. None of us are pledged to him, so I don’t know much about him.”
“I’ll look him up.” Dayna was already typing the name into a search. “Whoa, check him out.” She held up the phone, showing them the full-color illustration of a man with a mop of silver curls and a thick beard. He wore a golden crown at his brow and held a silver goblet.
“Isn’t he fancy looking?” Cora raised a brow, and then frowned suddenly. “The second witch who died…wasn’t she a poet? At least that’s what the news said.”
They could hear the rustle and hush of the library around them. Then Reagan said slowly, “And the symbol that means judge…”
“Holy shit.” Meiner’s stomach was churning now, and her voice was low and tense with excitement. She reached out and took her phone back, fingers brushing Dayna’s.
Goose bumps ran down both her arms, though Meiner wasn’t sure if it was the excitement of their discovery or the physical contact. She’d been distracted by the thought of kissing Dayna all morning. Even now, in the face of this discovery, it was hard to drag her mind away.
“The judge that was killed…” Reagan breathed. “A judge and a poet.”
“‘First we were gods’…Margery somehow knew, she was trying to tell you. They’re killing the gods that locked Carman away.” Meiner finally said it. “Or…at least witches that represent those gods.” She frowned suddenly. “But why Margery? What’s her connection?”
There was silence for a moment as they pored over the list of gods once again, and then Meiner cleared her throat.
“Your Margery didn’t happen to be a writer, did she?”
Dayna’s brows shot up. “Oh my god, yes. She used to write a column for the newspaper. It was a big thing a couple of years ago; she got kicked out of the church.”
Meiner pointed to a line of text. “It says here that Crichinbel was a satirist. If she thought she was writing some kind of satirical commentary…”
There was a beat of silence, and then Reagan said softly, “What did Cernunnos say to you in the vision again? Each death is unlocking something?”
Dayna frowned, brows creased. “Uh, the death of your saints is unlocking her cell, something like that.”
“Her cell,” Cora said. “Her cell. She was talking about Carman.”
“Holy shit.” Meiner sat up straight, pressing a hand to her mouth. “They think they’re resurrecting her.”
Dayna was clutching the bite on her shoulder. Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide and distant.
“I don’t think they think they’re doing it”—her voice was barely a whisper—“I think they actually are.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
DUBH
Tongue and eye, hand and foot. Blood and bone, ash and soot.
Dubh didn’t realize he was muttering it out loud until Olc’s shoe crashed into the wall near his head.
“Bloody Christ, Dubh. Shut the fuck up.” Olc leaned back on the mattress, tucking his hands behind his head. “We’ve got the book with all the instructions, so you can quit reciting that stupid rhyme.”
Calma paused in the middle of tracing a warding sigil on the opposite wall. He’d already marked most of the room with charcoal, leaving swirling lines of smudgy black all across the walls. The shoe missile had smeared a line. He brushed his long hair back from his face and scowled over at Olc. “Do you mind? If we’re going to stay here, we have to at least ward the damn place.” He shot a sideways look at Dubh, who ignored him.
Shutting the cooler lid with a snap, Dubh pushed it to the end of the second bed.