There was a man in the doorway. He was short, slender but muscular, dressed in a gray cotton T-shirt splattered with blood. Wavy blond hair framed his face, where a thin red scar ran down his cheek.
“You.” The sight of him sent a shock of cold through her, and she was too stunned to move. She realized suddenly that she’d seen him before, twice now, at Sage Widow. He’d bumped into her in the doorway the first time, and then she’d seen him on the porch weeks later, before finding Margery. Finding the body must have wiped it completely from her mind; she hadn’t remembered that until now.
She recognized the boyish face and blue eyes. The blond curls and the charming grin.
Fiona edged toward him, her smile wide, eyes glittering with that mad light.
She’d been lured here.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? These men—” She broke off, frozen. Her mother’s face was changing again, but this time it was accompanied by a strange, low chuckle, a laugh that seemed to build and get louder, that made all the hairs on the backs of her arms stand up. Dayna flinched, panic cutting through her anger. What the hell was this?
When the woman spoke, it sounded nothing like her. Her voice was a low, raspy growl. “Idiot child. I saw through you, but you never saw me. You and your father are fools.”
Dayna stared at her, mouth open, panic crawling slowly through her. “Who are you? What are you?” Her voice was shaky.
“I’ve waited so long,” the thing that was not Fiona whispered, and the woman stroked one pale, spidery hand over the cover of the book. She flicked her wide-eyed gaze to Dubh. “I did well, didn’t I? I knew who the Butcher truly was. I followed your pattern and knew I had to return when you came to Carman.” She darted a sideways look at Dayna, her smile crooked and too wide. “I knew it was her, look.” She tucked one hand into her pocket and came out with a tattered scrap of paper. It was covered in Fiona’s wild handwriting, the same thing repeated over and over.
Dayna, Dayna, Dayna.
And at the bottom, where her not-mother was indicating:
Dayna, Dayna, Dayna, Daya, Daya, Daga, Dagda, Dagda. The Dagda.
The Dagda. One of the gods who’d locked Carman away.
This was insane. They couldn’t possibly believe this.
“I’m not a god, I’m a witch.” Dayna turned back to the blue-eyed man. “And my coven knows where I am. They’re just outside—”
Her words ended with a scream as he struck her across the face, sending her staggering back. Her cell phone cracked onto the tiles and skittered underneath the kitchen table, where the light on the screen flickered weakly.
She braced herself on the kitchen counter, head spinning. For a few seconds she could only blink frantically, trying to clear her vision, her ears ringing. She’d never been struck before. It was shocking, but the adrenaline was enough to drive her back up, fingers curled into fists. The man was moving toward her again, only this time he took slow, leisurely steps. He was still smiling, face lit with ugly enjoyment.
To her horror there were others in the kitchen now. A taller man whose face was a mask of blood, his blond hair long and tangled, held a dish towel across his throat, and another man with a short, bristling buzz cut and heavy black brows. The man with the buzz cut had a thick scarlet line across his neck that was gushing blood all down his already soaked T-shirt. While she watched, he snatched a tea towel off the kitchen counter, knotting it around his throat like a handkerchief.
Three brothers, she had time to think, and then the shortest man was nearly on top of her. She turned for the drawer, throwing her hands up, gasping the spell out. There was one beat, two, when nothing happened, and she felt the emptiness in her stomach twist and thought she might be sick.
Yemi’s warning rang in her head, about not burning through the magic too fast. But she’d used it all to fight the shadow.
She had no magic left.
A second later the scar-faced brother crashed into her, shoving her back into the edge of the counter. The wind left her lungs in a rush, and Dayna wheezed.
She turned, just as fingers tangled in her hair and her head was wrenched painfully back. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, but it was all she could do to draw breath. The sound of her not-mother’s feverish mutterings filled the kitchen, as one of the brothers tried to get the book from her.
“I’m holding it for her,” Fiona protested. “She’ll want to see me.”
The brother with the shaved head laughed unkindly. “Angus Og, you sad bastard. Still running around after her like a kicked puppy centuries later.” He snorted. “God of love, my pockmarked left ass-cheek.”
“Our mother entertained herself with you.” The brother with the bloody face curled his lip at Fiona. “You were a plaything, nothing more. Now give us the book.”
“It’s mine. You said I could come. I want to see Carman again—”
“Olc,” the man holding Dayna’s hair growled from somewhere above her head. “Do us all a favor and shut that bitch up.”
There was a sharp crack, followed by the sound of a body crashing to the floor. Dayna jumped, then tried to twist around in the man’s grasp, but the motion sent pain blazing through her scalp. He caught her arm and pulled it behind her back, and she gasped. Her skin crawled as his breath tickled her neck.
Her left hand was still free, and she reached out blindly for the open drawer, but he dragged her backward. “No knives, no iron,” he rasped, and then sharply, “Leave her, Olc. There’s no time. Get the book and wait in the car. And find something to bandage your damn face.”
The one with the bloody face grunted, a noise of disappointment.
“Get that thing around her neck.”
The brother with the bloody face, Calma, came forward. He scowled at Dayna, who flinched back as he reached for her throat. His face looked murderous, but his fingers only closed around the leather cord around her neck. He jerked it hard enough that she gasped in pain as the leather broke, and then threw the bone pendant to the ground, face twisted with disgust.
Dayna’s mind was racing, and horror sent a sick chill through her. Her body was completely drained, so she had no way to protect herself.
What good was a witch without magic?
There weren’t many spells she could do without raw power, but there were oaths, prayers of protection. As soon as Calma turned away she began mumbling under her breath, all the invocations she knew: for protection, for revenge on her enemies, for strength. She got through the third one as the scarred brother dragged her down the hall toward the door, and then he jerked her against his chest, releasing her hair, and a hand pressed over her mouth. Her nose filled with the overpowering scent of smoke, and a wave of repulsion and terror washed through her.
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.
Panic rippled over her skin, constant, unending. There was no logic, only animal terror.
“No spells from you, witchling.” He sounded almost amused, and unexpectedly a trickle of anger mixed with the fear pulsing through her, burning in her chest like a brand. It grew hotter the more she focused on it, until it blazed through her. Rage.
She wasn’t a witchling. She was a full-fledged witch.
Dayna dragged air in through her nose. Fuck this. She was going to survive. She was going to stop them. She was going to call the cops on her weird, possessed mother and get on medication once she got out of this.