“I’m done waiting.” Olc pushed the driver-side door open, boots hitting the gravel. “The others are gone. It’s clear.”
“The blond one,” Calma said. “I didn’t see her leave.”
“She’s gone.” Dubh shoved the door open with one foot and slid across the seat, balancing Witchkiller’s sheath over his shoulder. The weight was comfortingly familiar. “I can feel it. It’s just her.” Greedily he eyed the house, the narrow, peaked windows that ran along the top of the second floor. She was in there; he could feel the stench of power. She was old now. Slower. But still deadly.
“Let’s go.”
Calma grunted bad-temperedly, but he said nothing, only followed Dubh up the winding driveway. The evening had turned to fog and drizzle, and the second half of the driveway wound up and vanished into the mist, obscuring the gates at the top.
For once, Dubh welcomed the rain. It felt right. Like the night itself was preparing for what was to come.
Halfway up Dubh felt the witch’s power move. She’d been sedentary until now, and for some reason it made him nervous. Her magic felt suddenly restless.
“I think she knows we’re coming.”
“Let her know. It makes no difference,” Olc said.
They paused at the first gate. Oak trees rose above it, ringing the house, and Dubh breathed in deeply, feeling the fire flicker and brighten in his veins as he neared. They always fed him, the oak trees.
They passed through the second gate, and Dubh’s skin burned unpleasantly as some spell of protection skimmed over him, kept off by the barrier he’d cast around himself that morning, though just barely. Walking beside him, both his brothers made noises of distaste deep in their throats, twin growls as they pushed forward.
Witchkiller felt heavy in his hands, as if it could sense her, and pins and needles rushed over his arms, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, making him shudder. Again, the magic did not touch them, and they passed through the second sanctuary unharmed.
The third gate nearly threw them, because it was not all there.
The high, arched rails of the gate flickered in and out, and the gap in the hedge vanished and reappeared. If the magic hadn’t broken on the brothers’ skin and spilled around them, they wouldn’t have seen the true location of the third gate at all.
But if they squinted just right, it stayed put as they passed through, Dubh’s skin tickled and stung fiercely, as if every exposed inch was being brushed all over by nettles.
They moved through the third gate, through the last enchantment and into the inner sanctuary, and Dubh’s blood sang to him, to his sword, to the need burning in his chest.
In the garden beyond the last gate, between the wind-rustled lilac bushes and the ivy-covered trestles of the archway leading to the house, stood the King Witch. Waiting.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
SAMUEL
It took him nearly thirty minutes to bike across town to the Etomi farm, even pedaling as fast as he could. He wobbled the last few feet up the driveway, completely winded. But he forced himself to keep going. Dayna wouldn’t pick up her phone, and he didn’t have anyone else’s number. He was sure the Butcher was coming for Harriet King next.
Margery is dead.
Margery, whom he’d talked to only hours before the attack.
He leaned his bike against one of the oak trees overhanging the driveway. He noted with some relief that the drive was empty—Dayna wasn’t there—and turned for the house.
Sam stopped, breath freezing in his throat.
There was someone there already. Three someones, actually, standing at the entrance to the garden. The middle figure was shorter than the others and dressed in a collared shirt and jacket. In his right hand, glittering in the light of the evening sun, was a sword.
Sam was rooted to the spot beneath the tree, terror paralyzing his muscles and bones.
He’d pictured himself charging in, triumphant, warning Harriet King before the killer arrived, maybe getting her to admit she was the final victim from the Isle of Man before whisking her away to the station. Maybe telling the others about it at Bible study tomorrow. Sam the serial killer catcher. Sam the hero.
He’d never dreamed of arriving after the killers.
Killers. Plural. The Butcher was a triad, a team.
He’d thought he’d solved this thing, that he knew all about the Butcher, but he’d been so wrong.
His entire body twitched as he tried to convince himself to move.
Finally, just as his hand was beginning to drift to his pocket, to his phone, there was movement from the farmhouse. He hadn’t noticed the fourth figure in the center of the garden, she’d been standing so still.
It was an old woman. She had wild, iron-gray hair, and her face, though lined with age, was like steel. There was something about her that made a chill drop down his spine, and he suddenly remembered what Margery had said: You go looking for Harriet King, you go looking for trouble.
The old woman raised a hand, palm facing the men, as if she were telling them to stop. Then she twisted her wrist, moving her fingers in the air, and the front of the house seemed to…ripple. It was the only way Sam could think to describe it. Something passed through the air directly in front of the door and traveled up and out. Suddenly there were strange markings all across the front, traced over windowpanes and doors. Swirls and pentacles and complicated knot work, all done in what looked like a thick rust-red liquid.
A moment later the lines faded, and Samuel blinked rapidly, shaking his head. He told himself he’d imagined it. The shock of the situation was making him see things. Or…it had been a trick of the light.
The men moved forward, and the one at the front spoke, his voice a guttural snarl that echoed across the open space. “King Witch.”
Samuel shuddered, but to his surprise the old woman put her hands on her hips and faced the first man straight on. “About damn time.”
Sam crept forward, clutching the side of the nearest car. What the hell was she doing? Why wasn’t she running for the house?
The man lifted his sword, pointing the blade at the woman. “The moment I came here, I knew you’d follow. I’ve let this game carry on long enough.”
I knew you’d follow?
That couldn’t be right. Sam’s head was spinning now, and he took a staggering step backward before freezing in place. Here he’d thought the Butcher had been following Harriet King from town to town, trying to get to her. To finish what he’d started on the Isle of Man all those years ago. But…she was the one following him?
Why?
Without warning, the old woman’s arm snapped out. The first man was picked up and hurled abruptly back, landing with a crash on the fence, chunks of wood scattering around him.
Sam yelped and then clapped a hand over his mouth. The old woman hadn’t touched him. Hadn’t even gone near him.
The paint on the front of the house had flared bright again, glowing with sick red light. It looked almost radioactive.
What the hell?
This wasn’t possible. It didn’t make sense.
His pulse was galloping, and he felt slightly faint, but even through his shock, he realized the sigils on the house looked familiar. In fact, some of them looked exactly like the one from the photo of the barn.
It all seemed impossible. And yet…it made a horrible kind of sense. It was one of the only explanations that fit….