Witches of Ash and Ruin Page 3
“What is it, Gran?” More as a fuck-you to Cora than anything else, Meiner made sure her voice was grave.
Her feelings about her grandmother were complicated, but Cora had no right to take that tone.
Grandma King ignored Meiner, leaning forward to smack the back of Cora’s headrest. “A witch died. Show some damn respect.”
“It’s probably just a roadblock, Gran.” Meiner stepped on the brake as they approached the squad car, rubbing a hand over her mouth. She hated to see the woman who’d raised her lose herself bit by bit as much as she hated the mixed feelings that came with it, the relief she sometimes felt as Gran softened, and the resulting guilt.
And the more the woman’s sense of self dwindled, the less likely she was to finish Meiner’s training. All Meiner wanted to do was ascend, to become a full witch and get the hell out. Here was yet another thing the old woman was taking from her.
She slowed down as they approached the squad car angled across the road, squinting against the flashing lights. Several were parked along the side, and a cluster of uniformed officers stood in the field just beyond. There were lamps illuminating the area, set up in a circle, and a moment later she realized they were around the stone circles, which appeared to have been roped off entirely.
Cora was already hanging halfway out her window. “Is that yellow tape? Oh my god.”
Meiner glanced in the rearview mirror, stomach plummeting. Grandma King was staring straight at her. She caught Meiner’s gaze and arched a brow. Meiner jumped when a voice beside her said, “Excuse me, miss, you can’t be here.”
She turned to find a garda frowning at her through the open window. He was tall and lanky, with square, Dudley-Do-Right-ish features and very blue eyes. He looked like someone about to thoroughly disapprove of them.
“You’ll have to detour.”
“Is this a crime scene?” Meiner leaned over the wheel, glancing past Cora. One of the officers was circling the group now, taking pictures. It had begun to rain and Meiner wondered briefly if that would wash away evidence.
“I’m afraid we can’t share details.” His frown deepened. “I’m going to have to ask you to turn around.”
Meiner scowled back at him, slamming the car into reverse. She was about to back up, when Gran croaked from the backseat, “What happened?”
The officer leaned forward, putting large, square-nailed hands on Meiner’s window frame. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give out that informat—” He cut himself off abruptly.
Meiner had been glaring down at his hands. When she looked up, she was surprised to see the officer’s face had gone slack. “It’s Judge O’Toole. God, she was friends with me mam. I don’t know what to tell her.” He paused and then plunged on, his face eerily blank. “We found her in the ditch. She’s slashed up pretty bad. It’s hard to know anything yet, but it looks like she was killed a few miles yonder and then dumped. I think it’s the Butcher because of the marks he’s left, and the fact he took her tongue, but there’s this weird tree thing on her cheek and he’s never done that before. I don’t have a lot of faith the department will figure it out. Sergeant’s about as smart as a sack o’ rocks.”
He’d said this all in a rush and then paused, sucking in a sharp breath, his expression caught between confusion and horror. Meiner blinked at him, stunned. She felt a little sick.
“I—uh…you’ll have to detour, ma’am.”
“Right,” she said slowly, and eased her foot onto the gas, turning the car around.
They were silent as she drove down the side road, the only sound was the wet smack of droplets hitting the windshield. A moment later she realized her hands were shaking and tightened her grip on the wheel. Cora was staring in the side mirror, back at the officer, her mouth open. Meiner glanced in the rearview mirror.
Grandma King’s eyes were shut. She was smiling, humming softly to herself, fingers drumming on the silver cigarette case on her lap.
Meiner shivered, forcing her gaze back to the road. She hadn’t been expecting that. Hadn’t seen Gran do anything like that in a very long time. She’d thought that part of her grandmother was gone.
Had hoped it was gone.
Just one more reason to ascend and get the hell out as soon as possible.
Finally Cora let out a breath. “That thing on her cheek…it’s the tree of life. She’s right.”
“Aye, of course I am.” Grandma King’s eyes snapped open. “The woman’s had her ascension.”
“And then been murdered.” Meiner pressed her lips together. Her throat felt tight.
The mark was something you got the day of your ceremony, the one supposed to connect you to the god of your choosing. To give you a direct line to their power and make you a full witch. The same ceremony she’d been waiting to do since she’d hit sixteen and become eligible.
She swallowed, mouth tasting bitter.
Cora was still staring in the side mirror. “Root ink only lasts a few days,” she said shortly.
Meiner nodded. “Someone offed her three days ago at most.”
“So she was a witch. Now what?”
They both looked back at Grandma King. The old woman was leaning against the window, her cheek mashed against the glass. She’d already begun snoring gently.
It appeared for now, she and Cora were on their own.
CHAPTER FIVE
SAMUEL
When he first heard the call it was choppy, half-lost in a burst of static.
“…code one-eight-six…circle…” The voice dissolved again, and Sam shot forward, nearly strangling himself with his headphones. The cracker box he’d been reaching for thumped to the floor, crumbs spraying across the carpet.
He twisted the knob frantically, until the channel was clear. “…on my way.” The answering voice was deep and gravelly, immediately identifiable as his father’s.
They’d been let out early after the bird incident, and he’d spent the rest of the day listening to chatter, hoping to hear something about it. His hand kept drifting to his face, fingers smoothing over the scratch on his cheek. He remembered feeling the carpet burn his palms, the screams and the thunder of wings, the way Dayna had curled up in the shelter of his arms. And her face…the way she’d looked at the dead bird…
He turned his attention back to the scanner on his dresser. He’d borrowed it from the back room of the station a couple of years ago. It was old and had been in need of repair, and his father had never noticed it was gone.
He glanced at the door, next to where his phone was balanced on his dresser blaring praise music. The guilt had faded over the years, because he wasn’t really hurting anyone with his obsession. If his mother happened to think he was in here reading the Bible, he wasn’t about to disabuse her of the notion.
He squinted at the radio.
One-eight-six didn’t make sense. One-eight-six wasn’t animal control, it was…He wracked his brain, frowning, fingers drumming on the top of the desk. Was it a B and E?
Wait, 186 was homicide.
That couldn’t be right. He’d been listening to the channel for nearly a year now. Carman was not a murder town. It was a cat-up-a-tree town. It was illegal parking. Or, if he got really lucky, he might hear a call about the organist locking herself out of the church, or a family feud that had got out of hand. Before the last remaining pub had been shut down, sometimes he’d hear them respond to a drunk and disorderly, but even those had all but disappeared.
No, Carman did not have murderers.
Still, he shifted in his chair, glancing over at the door. Circle…that had to mean the stone circles just outside town. It was a ten-minute bike ride, tops.
The code probably meant something different. That someone had…stolen a sheep or something.
It was dark and wet outside, and he tugged his hood farther down over his eyes before biking out into the storm, squinting against the downpour, his binoculars knocking against his chest. The rain pelted his face, stinging the cut on his cheek, r
eminding him that he’d nearly called Dayna three or four times that evening. The urge hit him once again, and he blew out a miserable breath.
He just wanted to hear her voice. As weird and terrifying as this morning had been, feeling her in his arms again had been good.
Of course, whenever he thought about Dayna the guilt returned, flaring up in the pit of his stomach. Their breakup had been confusing and emotional, and there was a kind of awkwardness between them now. They were still friends, though. There was a still a chance.
He pushed the thought aside, concentrating on making it up the hill. His legs burned, and he lowered his head as the wind lashed sheets of rain at him. This was probably completely insane, biking out in the pouring rain to spy on a small-town misdemeanor.
Once he came over the hill, he pulled his bike to the side, rocks popping under the tires. There was an outcrop of scruffy bushes around the field that held the stone circles, where he intended to do his spying. Halfway there he halted, gaze caught by flashes of blue and white. Two police cars blocked off the road, and a third was parked in front of the stone circles.
The area around the stones had been roped off with yellow tape, black letters spelling out Police Line, Do Not Cross. Inside the tape a half dozen men worked, some taking notes and pictures, others helping to erect a wide canvas tent over a tarp on the ground. Lamps had been set up around the perimeter, painting everything in stark yellow light.
Sam stayed frozen where he was, fingers biting into the rubber grips of his handles. He’d been right. One-eight-six was a homicide.
This was almost too good to be true.
Breathing hard, he fished into the pocket of his rain jacket, yanking out his binoculars.
The scene was blurry at first; he had to adjust for the rain. When it finally cleared he could make out gardai crowding around the tarp, one snapping pictures as another lifted it off the ground. There was someone on the grass in the middle of the stones, arms and legs splayed. It was too far to see their face, but they weren’t moving. A body. The thought made his stomach lurch.
On the other side of the stone circles stood his father. Sam watched the sergeant shift onto his heels, smoothing a hand over his face. Even at this distance he could tell his father was agitated, and he kept looking at the farthest stone circle.
Sam shifted the binoculars slightly, trying to refocus on the rocks. It took a few frustrating seconds, as he hadn’t used the binoculars since his bird-watching phase two years ago, and it was hard to make out anything clearly through the rain.
Finally he found it. There it was, a faint shape that grew sharper the longer he stared. It was drawn in a kind of horrible rust red, all sharp angles and twisted lines. It took him one beat, two, to digest what he was seeing, and then he could feel the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
He knew exactly what it meant.
Sam jerked his bike upright and slung a leg over the seat, turning back for the house. He had to get home and start taking notes right away.
This was going to be historic.
CHAPTER SIX
DAYNA
If Sage Widow was Dayna’s second favorite place, the coven house was top of her list. The building itself was overly large, in a comfortable, sprawling kind of way. A farmhouse lived in so thoroughly that every corner had someone’s personal mark. It was such a contrast with the reverend’s cold, spacious home, which was filled with a mixture of sad thrift store furniture. A proverbial elephant graveyard of unloved sofas and and sagging armchairs.
Here, everything was mismatched, quilted together or slightly cracked, but every piece had a purpose. Everything had been sought out or built by hand. Reagan and her mother, Yemi, had filled their home with stacks of books, football trophies, patchwork quilts, and scattered pages of Reagan’s spell work. Stashes of loose-leaf tea in silver tins sat on crooked shelves, and battered trunks and treasure chests nestled in nooks and crannies.
The house was full of her childhood, warm memories hidden in every corner. Memories of sleeping over in Reagan’s squeaky-springed double bed, the two girls tucked under the bumpy quilt, filling the darkness with giggles. Memories of dancing in the kitchen, turning the radio up when Yemi went out for groceries. And best of all, the moment the three of them were camped out on the couch, bowls of popcorn on their laps, watching reruns of Yemi’s favorite soaps. Reagan had grabbed a handful of popcorn, and casually, though Dayna could tell her friend was fairly bursting with excitement, told her she was a witch. And that Dayna could be one, too. Yemi could teach them both.
Dayna had been part of the coven from that moment on. They were her real family. Here, Dayna left everything that wasn’t witchcraft behind. Here, Reagan Etomi was her best friend, and magic existed, and nobody quoted scripture at you.
The driveway was long and winding, and her hatchback stirred up clouds of dust as she whipped around the curves. Even on her way up the dirt lane she could feel the tension melting from her shoulders. She knew every dip, every turn, every pothole. She cracked the window and let the cool, pine-scented night air kiss her face.
This was home.
She parked crookedly next to Reagan. Her friend drove a blue minivan covered with a combination of obscure band stickers, her Wexford Football club logo, and witchcraft jokes, and as Dayna passed the back she looked for a new one. Sure enough, there was a small square sticker on the left side of the bumper—My other car is a stick, with the silhouette of a witch on a broom.
Dayna grinned. The new sticker would send Bronagh into fits. She was always going on about how brazen young witches were these days. To talk about it so openly was asking to be drowned or stoned in her day.
This was of course, a terrible exaggeration, since Dayna was fairly certain Bronagh had not been alive in the fifteenth century.
She passed through the three gates leading up to the yard and through the wild garden, and the sensor lights kicked on as she walked through. It was exactly the sort of garden a witch was supposed to have, full of overgrown ivy and suspect-looking plants. Down the stone pathway, she pushed past the screen door, which shrieked her arrival to the entire house.
She found the coven assembled around the long wooden plank that served as the kitchen table.
Reagan bounced in her chair when she saw her, clapping her hands. “Finally, for the love of all the gods, woman. She’s got us waiting to open our blooming mouths.”
If it were possible for Reagan to be any less like the people at school, she wasn’t sure how. Today Reagan was wearing a patched dress, colorful against her dark brown skin, and her feet were bare. The dress looked as though someone had slain a patchwork quilt and made clothing from its hide. It would be hideous on anyone but her. With Reagan’s beaded, blue-dyed locs and the black velvet choker she always wore, she managed to make it look like a high-fashion piece.
“Patience is a virtue, Reagan.” Yemi was hovering over the table. She’d already poured black tea into five mismatched china cups, and now she looked up at Dayna, brows raised. “Come chop, Dayna. Biscuit? Jam tart? Pie?”
“Oh, uh. Tea would be nice.” She raised a brow at Reagan as Yemi bustled over to the counter to collect another cup. “I brought Bronagh’s tea. What’s going on?”
Reagan leaned sideways in her chair, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her dress. Reagan refused to wear anything without pockets as a general principle. “She’s been stress baking all day.” Her dark eyes flicked between her mother and the other witches. “Apparently there’s another coven coming to meet us, which I guess means we need an entire bakery’s worth of desserts.”
“Another coven? I didn’t know there was one nearby.” Dayna glanced over at Yemi, who was busy refilling the kettle on the stove, humming along with the transistor radio on top of the fridge. She knew Reagan’s mother better than her own father, and as the woman came over and set her cup on the cluttered table it was obvious how preoccupied she was. The hint of an accent had returned, as it often did wh
en she was stressed or excited, and she’d pulled her cloud of black hair into a tight knot at the base of her neck. She had the glassy-eyed look of someone who’d traded multiple hours of sleep for hovering over the stove.
When Dayna was anxious, she used cognitive behavior therapy. When Yemi was anxious, she made cookies, and her tendency to force tea on everyone increased. Dayna bit her lip, wondering what exactly it was about this other coven that was making Yemi so nervous.
“Thanks.” She watched Yemi pour the tea, steam curling up from the surface. Tea would be good. It warmed the throat for what she knew was going to be a long, strange conversation. Of course, when you were surrounded by witches, most conversations were long and strange….
Yemi gave her a sympathetic smile, pulling her into one of her warm hugs before pushing her gently back to study her face. “How are you dealing, my girl? I’m glad to see your face isn’t scratched. Mercy, you should see that Morgan girl from your church. She’s all slashed up.”
Dayna blinked at her, startled. She’d been so preoccupied with thoughts of the other coven, she’d nearly forgot about the birds.
She set her backpack down, sliding into an empty chair. “I’m fine, Yemi. Honestly. But someone tell me about this coven. Why are they coming?”
“Don’t ask us. They certainly weren’t invited.” Brenna, the fifty-something-year-old daughter of Bronagh, and the middle of the trio of Callighan women, sat at the opposite end of the table. She had her tarot deck spread over the tablecloth, and she flipped a card over and tapped one long red nail against it, her gaze distant. Now and again she’d tilt her head back to look at the dusty tapestry on the wall above the table, a colorful portrayal of the Celtic gods embroidered on green fabric.
“Their leader used to be part of our coven, back in the day.” This from Faye, ex-surgeon and granddaughter to Bronagh, who’d inherited her grandmother’s red hair and fair complexion but not her laugh. Her tea sat untouched.