There was a reason the Butcher hadn’t been able to kill the woman all those years ago. A reason she’d survived the horrible wound.
Harriet King was a witch.
Witchcraft was real. Magic was real.
There was another crash from the garden, and a blast of the same sickly red light, but Sam was already scrambling backward, heart in his throat, searching blindly for his bike handlebars in panic.
He managed to get onto the seat and get his feet on the pedals, nearly tipping over twice before he kicked off, starting down the driveway, sending up clouds of dust as he pedaled frantically away.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
DAYNA
The Callighans stayed to talk to the hotel owner, and Bronagh sent the rest of them home.
Dayna rode back with Reagan and Yemi. She said it was because she needed to talk to them, but judging by the look Meiner gave her, she knew it was a lie. Their argument was on the back burner, but that didn’t mean it was resolved.
Reagan seemed to pick up on it after several seconds of driving in silence. She pursed her lips and gave Dayna a look in the rearview mirror. “Out with it, woman. What’s going on with you and Meiner?”
Dayna hesitated, then shrugged. “Meiner is acting weird, like…standoffish. She won’t say why. I think it’s something to do with Cora.”
Reagan’s brows shot up. “What, you think there’s…like, something there?”
“Not like that. At least I don’t think so.” She told them about the argument, how Meiner had acted when she’d said they were leaving.
“Wow,” Reagan said. “Sounds like some shit went down with her coven.”
Yemi sucked her teeth. “Mmm-hmm, what did I tell you? That coven is trouble.”
“You said no such thing,” Reagan retorted. “You were all, Invite them in for tea, I’m sure they’re lovely.”
Dayna grinned, and then her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket. She fished it out and read the text out loud.
Reverend: Come get the rest of your things. Your mother is going through them.
“Shit.” She fumbled her phone and nearly dropped it, the sudden rush of anger making her hands shake. “Oh my god, why is he letting her do that?” She squeaked in surprise as the van took a sudden turn, tires squealing. “Whoa, what are you doing?”
Reagan looked grim. “We’re going to your house, obviously.”
“Slow down, Reagan,” Yemi said, but she didn’t contradict her daughter. “I’ve half a mind to come in and have a word with your father, Dayna.”
Normally she would have protested. She didn’t want her coven involved, and the thought of dealing with her parents right now was exhausting. All she wanted to do was go to Reagan’s house and pore over the book in her bag. She hadn’t even got a chance to open it yet, with everything going on.
And maybe if they just went back to the coven house, she could talk to Meiner, see if she could get her to confess what was wrong.
But the memory of the symbol scratched into Fiona’s arm was still fresh, and if she was involved in this somehow…Dayna’s fists were clenched, nails biting into her palms. What would happen if she discovered the box under the bed, discovered her altar?
Reagan drove like the devil was after them, and they pulled into Dayna’s driveway five minutes later. She took a breath, steeling herself. This wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“Wait here, will you?” Dayna said, and when both women looked like they were going to protest, she said sternly, “I’ll be right back, I swear. But please, stay until I text. I’m going to talk to my dad, and this is going to be messy.”
Reagan sighed. “All right, but if you don’t text in twenty minutes, we’re coming in, spells blazing.”
Dayna grinned in spite of her churning stomach. “I believe you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CORA
It was getting dark now. The last rays of light from the sinking sun painted the boy’s face in alternating patterns of shadow and light. He was so utterly still. Cora had closed the distance between them before she realized what she was doing, driven by curiosity.
She moved around him, cautious at first, and then as he stayed rooted to the spot, she grew more confident. Trailing a hand over his shoulder, a finger along his chest. His body shuddered under her touch.
“You really can’t move, can you?”
Despite the fear that churned her stomach, a cold thrill ran through her. Finally her goddess was showing her power.
Again came that liquid sensation in the back of her mind, the presence of Caorthannach’s shifting, sliding scales. I give him to you, witchling. I grant you my power. Are you not pleased?
“Aye,” she whispered. “I’m pleased. I’ll…” She faltered, reluctant to say it.
There can be no power without sacrifice. You cannot win this war without me.
That was it. She wasn’t doing this for herself, or for Grandma King. She was doing this for her fellow witches, for a greater cause.
Cora dipped into her purse, drawing the dagger out. The box hit the grass at her feet with a soft thud, and there was a hiss from the boy. In the dusky light his eyes were frantic. His mouth twitched, as if he were trying to move his lips.
Cora clenched the dagger in one hand and reached out with the other, seizing the bottom of his T-shirt. She meant to yank it up, to expose his bare chest. Instead she curled her fingers into the fabric, snarling softly to herself. Why couldn’t she do it?
There would be more deaths if she didn’t do this. Without this, who would be strong enough to fight? What was one life in exchange for many?
Cora curled her fingers tighter, hating them for shaking. Hating herself for her cowardice.
She had to do this. Take the heart. Say the words.
This was her ascension. She’d been waiting for so long now.
If it makes it easier, the goddess hissed, and then without warning Cora was hit with a barrage of images, flashes in the back of her mind, an old-fashioned moving picture in her head.
The boy at a house party, head thrown back, laughing, a beer bottle clutched in his hand. A girl passed out in a bedroom upstairs, a single bottle on the floor, amber liquid leaching out into the carpet. The boy in the doorway. His sharp smile, the light in his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder.
The boy in the bed. On top of the girl.
And then later, beside his locker, surrounded by his friends. The laughter, a slap on the back, a punch to the shoulder.
The scene yanked Cora out of this reality and plunged her into her own past, a particular house party as a teen, a boy who’d reacted badly to the news she wasn’t interested, who’d followed her around the party until she was six beers in and swaying on her feet.
And Meiner, there suddenly out of nowhere, full of rage and vodka. Cora hadn’t been sure what happened after that; everything was fuzzy. But there’d been rumors the boy had peed blood the next day.
And if Meiner hadn’t been there?
There was the girl in the bed again, only now the hair spread across the pillow was blond, and Cora was looking straight into her own face, eyes shut, lashes flickering against her cheeks. Across the room the bedroom door clicked shut.
The images cut out, and Cora reeled back, shaking her head. She felt plunged from darkness to light too suddenly, dazzled. And angry. Filled with the kind of rage that stuck in her throat and choked her.