Witches of Ash and Ruin Read online

  Over the years, her father’s church had begun to stray into strange territory. Likely they no longer qualified as Catholic. As far as she could see, they did what the reverend told them to. Picketing, protesting, ruining people’s lives and businesses…

  They couldn’t be going after Sage Widow.

  The very idea made her tighten her grip on the wheel, anger sparking in her chest. They couldn’t. She wouldn’t let them.

  Thankfully there was no one there when she pulled into the parking lot, no mad-eyed worshippers with angry cardboard signs.

  Sage Widow was her second favorite place in town. It had started out as a tea shop and slowly, over the years, morphed into something more. Something exciting.

  Of course, there was no Witches Only sign, and it was visited by a fair number of patchouli-burning hippies and vegan football moms from the next town, but this was the only place with the ingredients for most everyday potions, so Dayna knew a good number of the clientele at least had witchy tendencies. It was a small, dimly lit shop that often smelled strongly of basil, and the sign over the door hung slightly crooked, but there was a special sort of magic to it despite this. Or perhaps because of it.

  The bell jangled as Dayna pushed her way into the low-light interior. Instantly she was hit by a wall of fragrance, a mixture of herbs and incense so strong it made her eyes water. Margery, the woman behind the desk, eyes fixed on the TV, gave her a cursory wave as she came in.

  Dayna moved farther into the shop, past shelves of talismans and teas, wooden symbols and stacks of pewter bowls. As she made her way under the wooden sign hanging above the aisle—Herbs & Oils to Bewitch the Senses!—her cell phone chimed.

  She grimaced down at the screen. It was Samuel.

  Hey, I’m still shaken up about that weird crow thing. Are you okay? We should get a coffee. Tomorrow?

  She sighed and shoved the phone back into her pocket. That was all she needed right now, on top of everything.

  It had been three months since they’d broken up. Since she’d insisted she needed her space because of the rumors flying around the school. She didn’t know how to talk to him now, how to deal with the shame that flared up and made her stumble over her words.

  One day no one knew a thing, and the next, the entire school was whispering: Dayna Walsh is a lesbian. Dayna Walsh is bisexual.

  No one seemed to know or care which one it was, just that she was hiding a secret that must be discussed, picked apart, delivered to anyone who didn’t know.

  Now every day at school was pure misery. It was walking down the hallway trying not to make eye contact or accidentally brush past someone. Every second was spent overanalyzing everything.

  All of that was precisely why Sage Widow was one of her favorite places. Here, there was no way she would see anyone from school. And the church didn’t seem to know about it. No one knew she was a witch, outside her coven, and she intended to keep it that way. Her father could continue believing her overnight stays with Reagan had been full of rom-coms and popcorn instead of spell books and cauldrons, that the summers had been beaches and barbecues, not nights of memorizing protection prayers and learning counterhexes. When she was very small she’d begged her father to let her be homeschooled with Reagan. She could think of nothing better than to quit private school and learn magic with her best friend. Of course, since Reagan and her mother weren’t Christian—Yemi went to the mosque in Waterford once a week—the reverend had shot that down fast.

  She moved through the aisle, looking over boxes of crystals and jars of clover and cardamom. It was tempting to buy something for her stash beneath the bed….

  But she was here for Bronagh’s tea.

  She reached for the tea chest, directly beneath the black-and-white television on the top shelf, currently playing some kind of catchy jingle. She was mostly ignoring the commercial, but the words Struggling to catch a breath? jerked her upright. The woman on TV smiled wide, saying something about medication. Dayna staggered back, already fighting the first wave of panic, struggling to remember the cognitive behavior therapy she was supposed to be using.

  One. The tea chest in front of her.

  Two. The pink-jeweled mirror on the wall beside the shelves.

  Three. Someone’s hand. Slender fingers, short nails. Black polish—

  Dayna’s head snapped up as the owner of the hand came into view. The girl reaching past her was tall, nearly six feet. She was sharp-featured and pale, with dark brows and eyes. The black lines of a tattoo snaked up from the collar of her jacket and onto her throat. The girl’s hair, wavy and just past her shoulders, was so pale blond it was nearly white, and one side was shorn just above the ear. The effect was striking, and for a moment Dayna only stared, which gave the other girl enough time to turn away, and Dayna realized she’d taken the last satchel of Ceylon black tea.

  “Um,” she stammered, caught between feeling foolish and indignant. “I was reaching for that.”

  The girl turned, and her dark eyes flicked over Dayna from her shoes to the top of her head. The light caught the ring in the center of the girl’s lower lip, automatically drawing Dayna’s eye. When she looked up, she felt herself blush nearly to the tips of her ears.

  “Were you, now? Seems to me you were staring at the TV with your mouth hanging open.” The girl’s voice was low and a bit husky. She looked amused, which sent a flare of irritation through Dayna.

  “I was distracted for a moment.” It came out more defensively than she meant it to.

  The other girl shrugged, hands tugging at the edges of her leather jacket in a way that was somehow dismissive. She turned on her heel. “You were too slow.”

  For half a second Dayna only stood there, stunned. Are you kidding me? And then as the girl began to walk away, she shook herself and followed. “Uh, no. That’s my tea.”

  She didn’t even turn around. “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Are you serious?” Dayna doubled her pace to catch up to the girl.

  It wasn’t like she was looking for a fight, but she wasn’t going back without that tea.

  She rounded the shelves, and there were suddenly three women staring at her. Dayna blinked, feeling ambushed.

  “Made a friend in the tea section, have you, Meiner?” The girl on the far left crossed her arms over her chest. She was short, with straight blond hair and glasses, her skin tanning-booth bronzed. Her tone was inquisitorial, almost demanding, and the way she looked at her friend made Dayna wonder if they were an item.

  “Not exactly.” The other girl—Meiner—gave Dayna a wry look over her shoulder. “She’s accusing me of tea theft.”

  “I’m sorry, but I was reaching for that.” Normally she would have backed down. Been too shy to face off with a stranger as intimidating as this white-haired giant. But this was important.

  Bronagh was waiting for this tea, and she’d be damned if she let some creepy frost giant–looking girl take it from her.

  Okay, maybe she was looking for a fight. Just a little one.

  The girl’s other companion, an elderly white woman with steel-gray hair, seemed to be muttering to herself. “Should have known not to trust her with anything.” She didn’t look at Meiner or Dayna, glaring at the shelves around them. “What the hell is this place?”

  As Dayna watched, the old woman fished into her pocket and pulled out a thin silver case.

  Meiner looked irritated. “Gran, you can’t smoke in here.” She turned back to Dayna. “Listen, we should check with the store. Maybe they have more tea in the back room.”

  Dayna frowned, still a little indignant. “I suppose—”

  “Here.” Meiner started forward, suddenly so close that Dayna jumped. She was tall enough that Dayna had to tip her head back to meet her eyes. She froze as Meiner seized her wrist, pressing the tea into her hand.

  “Go on, then, it’s yours.”

  For a second, the taller girl held on, fingers loosely wrapped around Dayna’s wrist, and Dayna blinked u
p at her, startled. Then the girl let go, stepping back with a smirk.

  “Uh, thanks.” Dayna held on to the tea a little tighter than necessary. She hadn’t expected Meiner to give in so suddenly, and now she felt a bit silly. She’d really been ready to fight with a stranger just now. Over tea. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Her face felt hot, and she opened her mouth—she wasn’t sure what she planned to say—but Meiner was already turning away. The others followed without a backward look.

  The awkwardness wasn’t over, though, because she realized a moment later she couldn’t just walk out. She had to pay, and she could already hear them at the counter.

  Their voices drifted down the aisle, first the low, raspy tones of Meiner and then the higher, sweeter voice of Margery.

  “I believe I’ve got overstock in the back. I’ll check for you, love.”

  Dayna snorted. The idea of calling that girl love…

  Her phone chimed, and she winced. She hadn’t meant to stand in the aisle waffling, but now it was going to be obvious she hadn’t moved from the spot.

  She glanced down at Reagan’s message, irritated.

  Get your ass over here, the coven is waiting. Interesting developments.

  Dayna frowned, typing back a quick OMW before turning for the counter and nearly running into Meiner again, who smirked and brushed white hair off her shoulder. She held up her own satchel. “Guess they had some. Day saved.”

  “Well, great,” Dayna said automatically. Her phone pinged again.

  Bronagh is freaking out. Def something she’s not saying.

  “Uh, see you around.” Dayna left the frowning Meiner standing in her wake as she hurried to the counter.

  She was so preoccupied that she bumped into a muscular blond boy on the way out. He caught her arm, steadying her, and she got a strong whiff of cigarette smoke. The scent made her inhale sharply, and she forced herself to concentrate on the moment, instead of the thought of the smoke entering her lungs.

  The boy grinned, a toothpaste-commercial smile, and Dayna mumbled an apology before hurrying to her car.

  Even completely preoccupied with forcing her thoughts into line, she couldn’t help thinking about Meiner. She was effortlessly confident. Down to the way she held herself, like she couldn’t care less if you disapproved.

  It was a trait Dayna found particularly annoying.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MEINER

  The last thing Meiner King wanted was to return to Carman, to this goddamn backwoods village in the middle of nowhere. So, of course, that was exactly what her coven asked her to do.

  They’d driven four hours to get here, and it was just beginning to get dark. They’d gone from the moss-draped forests and white-capped rivers of Limerick County to long stretches of flat countryside broken only by scrubby, uneven walls of shrubs and punctuated by cattle and clumps of dopey sheep. As they drew closer to town, houses cropped up here and there, tiny and picturesque, peak-roofed bungalows with old-fashioned stone siding.

  Meiner had driven on, silently hating every one of them.

  Finally they’d passed the Welcome to Carman sign, the streetlights illuminating a green-and-white-trimmed board surrounded by wilted geraniums. Seeing it brought back a flood of unwelcome memories.

  That, together with thoughts of the girl from the store, distracted her enough for the car to drift toward the other lane. She jerked it back just as Cora said from the passenger seat, “God, Meiner. Do you mind not trying to kill us?”

  This was followed by the pop and snap of gum, and Meiner tightened her grip on the wheel, her entire being pulsing with annoyance. “Shut the fuck up, Cora.”

  Cora snapped her gum defiantly. “Sure and I will, if you’ll stop being a miserable bitch.”

  Meiner clamped her mouth shut, nostrils flaring. She was at the very end of her thin rope of patience. Stomping down on the gas made the car rattle beneath her, and the engine gave a satisfying roar. In the passenger seat Cora stiffened. “You’re going too—”

  A thunderous snore from the backseat interrupted her. Since the car was crammed with luggage, Grandma King was wedged against the door, but it didn’t seem to bother the old woman. She’d fallen asleep the second they’d left the shop, face pressed against the window, gray curls falling in her eyes. Her mouth was open, quivering wider with each uproarious snore.

  In waking life, Grandma King was a refined elder, one of the most powerful witches in Ireland. A woman who ruled her coven with iron-fisted dignity.

  In sleep she was a sloppy mess.

  Meiner snorted in disgust, refocusing on the road. Well, she had been a powerful witch. The truth was, Meiner wasn’t sure what her grandmother was now. A doddering senior, maybe, if appearances were to be believed.

  She glanced at the woman in the rearview mirror, eyes narrow. Grandma King’s face was peaceful in sleep, an unusual expression for someone normally in the middle of saying something biting.

  “This is a terrible idea.” It had to be the tenth time Meiner said it, and it didn’t get any less true. She hated this hick town, with its dirt roads and empty fields and the church that overshadowed everything. Places like this weren’t just boring, they were poisonous. Dangerous to people like her, both as a witch and a queer girl. Neither part of her was welcome.

  Cora leaned forward, peering at clusters of idyllic, thatched-roofed houses. The homes were surrounded by neat garden beds and carefully cultivated trees. “Maybe, but at least it’s something to do. This is the town you lived in before your gran left her old coven, isn’t it?”

  This was delivered in the sly, underhanded way Cora had when she knew she was poking a sore spot. Meiner’s temper was never far beneath the surface, and Cora seemed to pride herself on pushing her.

  Even knowing Cora was deliberately trying to aggravate her was enough to start her blood rushing in her ears. Meiner didn’t answer, only clenched her teeth and stared at the road. She wished she were back home where she could retreat to the basement and batter herself senseless against the punching bag. Expend some of this restless, buzzing energy.

  “So why’d she get kicked out?” Cora snapped her gum again, and Meiner glanced over, annoyed.

  “She didn’t say she got kicked out, just that she left.”

  Cora snorted. “Right. That’s why you guys up and skipped town.”

  She didn’t answer. Didn’t want to admit she’d guessed the same thing a long time ago. Gran didn’t talk about Carman or her last coven, and Meiner had never dared ask.

  Cora didn’t jump when Meiner slammed her fist into the steering wheel. “Gran has one vague premonition and we go running back to this place to join a bunch of strangers.”

  A wheezing groan from the back made Meiner stiffen, knuckles white on the wheel. She turned, dismayed to see her grandmother blinking around the inside of the car. “Where the bloody hell are we?”

  Meiner hesitated, glancing out at the village, at the cabins and cottages as they drove past, the winding dirt driveways with the handcrafted mailboxes. Did Grandma King mean Where the bloody hell are we? as in when would they arrive at the coven house?

  Probably she didn’t remember insisting they stop at Sage Widow.

  Maybe she didn’t even remember they were in Carman.

  It was hard to figure out what she was thinking these days, and asking could get you screamed at, possibly cursed if you were unlucky.

  “We’re in Carman, Gran,” she said shortly, and was rewarded with a confused scowl. The irritation bubbled up, quickly turning to anger. Grandma King didn’t remember why they’d come. “Remember your premonition?” She did her best not to sound irritated. “You said we had to go to Carman. Something’s going to happen here.”

  “Apparently,” Cora muttered, and Meiner shot her a warning look. Cora shook blond hair out of her face and rolled her eyes.

  “Murder,” Gran muttered from the back, and her eyes slid shut again.

  There was silence in the ca
r as Meiner breathed deeply and tried to wrestle her temper down.

  Yes, murder, death, dismemberment. Lately it was one dire prediction after another with the old woman, but this was the first time she’d insisted on uprooting them all and traveling three hundred miles cross-country.

  Following the GPS description, she turned onto a smaller road. It took all of ten minutes to drive across Carman, and they were approaching the other end, hedged in by tall oak trees, when the GPS went quiet and the radio kicked in.

  “Construction on the North Ireland Pass has begun, as workers begin to bridge the gap between Scotland and Ireland. This move has long been supported by members of the Northern Irish Assembly, but it was not until late last year that funding was received for what some are now calling the Celtic Crossing—”

  “Boring.” Cora reached forward, about to change the station as a commercial for McLoughlin’s Winery came on—“Finest wines for finest occasions!”—and then jerked in surprise when Grandma King said loudly, “Wine!”

  Meiner clenched her teeth, taking a deep breath before answering.

  “We haven’t got any wine.” She forced her voice to sound patient, though all she wanted to do was roll down the window, hang her head out and scream. “We’re going to meet your old coven, remember?”

  Thankfully Gran was already distracted. “What the devil is that?”

  Meiner turned, irritated to see flashing blue lights just beyond the bend.

  “Shit.”

  “Will you relax?” Cora tipped her head back, rolling her eyes. “It’s Friday night. It’s just a roadblock for drunks.”

  “There.” Grandma King twitched the collar of her sweater up, pulling it over the thick, mottled scar on the left side of her neck. The habit—and the scar—had existed as far back as Meiner could remember. “That’s it.”

  Cora smirked. “Is this about your vision?”

  Her smugness grated on Meiner. Whatever wild claim Grandma King was making now, it was clear from Cora’s mocking tone she didn’t believe her.