Waking the Witch

thirty-three

As I stood, Paula eyed me warily. “Now what? Do I need to call lawyer?”

“Not unless you killed Claire or Michael Kennedy. Claire’s mother is my client, so her death is my professional concern. Her brother’s death is my personal concern. As far as I can see, you had nothing to do with either, so ...” I shrugged and put my notebook into my bag. “Not my concern.”

“What about the gun? If Chief Bruyn suspects I stole it—”

“He doesn’t. I lied. You’re in the clear.”

She let me get to the hall, then she called, “Savannah.”

I glanced back.

“Thank you,” she said.

“If it’d been me,” I said, “I’d have shot Brandi, and it wouldn’t have been an accident.”

I went outside and said good-bye to Kayla, then watched as Paula threw open the door and bent to hug her.

AS ADAM DROVE, I relayed Paula’s story.

“I can see how it happened,” Adam said when I was done. “It’s Alastair who’s full of shit. They wouldn’t take Kayla away for a clear self-defense case.”

I shrugged. “It might not have looked all that clear to him. But she’s wrong about the photos. She just didn’t see the signs—the cops didn’t, remember? If Alastair is into Santeria, he knows enough about rituals to fake one and give the murders a satanic cult angle.”

Adam’s fingers tapped the steering wheel, his gaze distant.

“What?” I said.

“He could, but would he? Wouldn’t anything cultlike have them looking in his direction? Then, if they found the Santeria—which he wasn’t hiding very well—he’d be the new prime suspect. Maybe the cops never noticed those ritual signs because they weren’t there. Where did Jesse get his set?”

“From a contact. A friend—” I swore. “They were doctored before Jesse got them.”

WE COULD VERIFY that theory easily enough—just look at the real photos. But when I called the station, Bruyn was out. I wanted to stop by anyway, but Adam eased me off, not wanting us to jump to conclusions so fast.

“Remember Claire did have that pewter bead in her hand,” he said as he drove. “Sure, I think it would be dumb for Alastair to stage it, but maybe he didn’t see that.”

“He was panicked and did the first thing he could think of. But if that’s true, then it seriously cuts down on the suspects for Claire’s murder.”

“Let’s say Claire found evidence that Paula killed Ginny and Brandi. She goes to Alastair to get his advice. He kills her.”

“Then Michael starts getting close. Alastair lures him to a warehouse staged for a ritual—”

The Jeep thumped into a pothole. My stomach heaved and I grabbed the dashboard. Adam hit the brakes and my breakfast almost hit the windshield.

“Shit! I’m sorry.” He eased the Jeep to the side as I bent forward, eyes closed.

“Kleenex,” I mumbled, trying not to open my mouth too far.

“Right. Okay. I’ve got napkins.”

He passed them to me and I spat out the stuff in my mouth. As I wadded up the tissues, an opened pack of gum appeared in front of me. I took a piece, and chewed before saying, “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“You haven’t been feeling well?”

“A bit nauseated.” I glanced over. “And no, it isn’t morning sickness. Somehow I doubt I’m a suitable candidate for the next immaculate conception.”

“I was feeling a little off myself first thing, and it’s definitely not morning sickness for me. Could be the flu. Any other symptoms?”

I told him about the headaches and the spellcasting.

“You’re having trouble casting spells?”

“Just a few misfires. It’s nothing.”

“You should have told me. If I’m watching your back, I need to know that your spells are on the fritz.”

“Let’s just get to the motel and talk to Jesse about the photos. Avoid the potholes if you can.”

He pulled back onto the road.

“Maybe whoever gave Jesse those photos did the doctoring himself,” I said. “He wanted Jesse to investigate Claire’s death, so he Photoshopped the others. I keep going back to that witch theory. If Ginny and Brandi’s deaths weren’t connected to Claire’s, then that makes even more sense. Claire could be a witch. She’s killed. Two weeks later, I’m being stalked and Tiffany—who we know is a witch—is killed.”

Adam didn’t say anything. When I looked over, he was staring straight ahead.

“What?” I said.

“I just keep ...” An angry shake of his head. “About the witch thing. It’s tweaking a memory, and it’s driving me crazy because I can’t figure it out. I’m going to check a few more things in the database, then I may have to break down and call Dad.”

THE FIRST ORDER of business at the motel was to talk to Jesse and get specifics on where he got the crime-scene photos. When we pulled in, though, the parking spot in front of his room was still empty.

“Shit,” I said. “I gave him the file.” I walked to Jesse’s door. “Time for a little B&E. Not like he hasn’t done the same to me ...” I murmured an unlock spell under my breath, then grabbed the handle and—

The knob didn’t turn. I tried again. Then tried harder.

Adam shouldered me aside and used the lock-pick gun. The door opened.

We went in. As Adam retrieved the folder, I closed and relocked the door, then started to cast.

“Savannah,” Adam sighed.

“It’s bugging me, okay?”

I cast the spell. The door stayed locked. I focused harder and cast a fourth time and felt a whisper of relief as I heard that familiar click. The door opened.

I held out my hand and cast a light ball. When nothing happened, a weird sensation like panic settled into the pit of my stomach. As I started to cast again, my fingers trembled. I stopped and made a fist.

“Savannah ...” Adam said. “You aren’t feeling well. We’ll deal with it.”

“Just give me a sec, okay?”

I concentrated and cast. The light ball shimmered, then went out. Another cast. It returned and stayed. Weak, but steady. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

Adam reached out, as if he was going to put his arms around me, but stopped short.

“No need to keep your distance,” I muttered. “Apparently, I’m not that dangerous today.”

“Apparently you’re sick today.”

“I need my spells.”

“They help, but you don’t need them. Not as much as you think you do.”

“Let’s get back and check out that file.”

“Changing the subject and completely ignoring the point I’m making.”

I shook my head and grabbed the file.

I LEAFED THROUGH the file. The crime-scene photos—and other pages—weren’t there. I read the rest, looking for anything that disagreed with Paula’s story. Nothing did. Good. As I read, Adam searched his database.

“Fuck,” he said. I jumped, papers sliding to the floor. By the time I’d gathered them back up, he was on his feet, still holding his laptop, reading it as he paced, mouth set, forehead furrowed.

“Found something, I take it.”

“Witch-hunters,” he said.

“Ah, an old and noble profession, a mere step down from that most esteemed position: Grand Inquisitor. Hate to break it to you, but the witch-hunts ended a few hundred years ago.”

“Not for some people.” He turned his laptop around to show me. “These ones date back even further than the Inquisition. Very rare. Very elusive. Young women who are trained from birth.”

“To hunt witches?” I shook my head. “If such a thing existed, I think I’d know about it.”

“Did I mention the rare and elusive part? They usually kill in a way that looks like suicide or natural death, which is what was tweaking my memory. I was searching on the Bible verse, though, and they don’t usually leave such an obvious sign.”

I bent to read the screen, then tapped the database title. “It’s filed under myths and legends. Meaning it’s bullshit. Mysterious trained assassins secretly killing witches?” I shook my head. “Just the kind of bogeyman a Coven—or sorcerers—would create to turn us into the cowering mice they want us to be.”

“Okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. First, the Inquisition. Then the witch-hunts. Then centuries of quaking in the dark, too damn scared to cast a light ball, terrorized by our own kind. Nobody does this to werewolves or vampires or half-demons. Why witches?”

“Um, because no one believes in werewolves or vampires or half-demons.” Adam put the laptop aside. “You’re preaching to the guy who’s heard the same sermon from Paige for the last twenty years. Witches get a bum deal. Always have. Personally, I’d blame sorcerers, but considering you’re a sorcerer, too ...”

“Blame male sorcerers. Or maybe just males in general. Inquisitors, judges, hangmen ... they were all male.”

“Are your spells still on the fritz? Or should I slink from the room while I still can?”

“I’m kidding. You know that. There are just as many bitches out there as bastards. Equal opportunity asshole-ism.”

I plunked onto the bed, picked up his laptop, and read the entry.

According to the myth, witch-hunters had begun as an actual supernatural race. The Benandanti. I’d heard of them. A small race of Italian demon-hunters, not witch-hunters, although they’d been known to go after any supernaturals who used their power for evil. They were extinct now. No one seemed to know why. According to this legend, though, they’d been wiped out and replaced by witch-hunters.

Witch-hunters had been priestesses who’d held absolute power over their people with garden-variety magic—the kind every street magician knows. Then their people started trading with a nomadic tribe, which included families of Benandanti.

The Benandanti, true to their nature, didn’t much like the priestesses. When the priestesses realized the Benandanti had real supernatural powers, they cried foul ... and accused them of being exactly the kind of evil the Benandanti fought. When people wouldn’t listen, the priestesses decided to eradicate the Benandanti. That took a few generations, and by the time they succeeded, they’d ironically slid into the role of the Benandanti, convincing themselves that they were the righteous ones ridding the world of evil spellcasters. So, when the Benandanti were gone, they moved on to a more ambitious target: witches.

The entry described a secret society of women who spent their childhood and adolescence preparing for the day when they would kill a witch or two. When they “came of age,” they finally got their chance. It reminded me of religions where the young adults spend a few years traveling, spreading the word and making converts. Only these girls hit the road in hopes of killing a few witches before rejoining civilian life, marrying and raising the next generation of assassins.

Like your standard myth, it made a good story, which is why my gut reaction was to treat it as such. And yet...

According to the legend, there were very few of these families remaining, as elusive as snow leopards. When they killed, they did it in a way that wouldn’t raise any alarms, even among witches. Wasn’t that exactly how Claire and Tiffany died? One the apparent victim of a serial killer. The other likely a suicide.

Witch-hunters were said to recognize witches on sight—as sorcerers do—then stalk their victims until they found exactly the right circumstances. What if one had been following Claire Kennedy? That witch-hunter comes to Columbus, and discovers another witch ... then another. She’d think she’d struck the jackpot.

Kill Claire and link her death to the first two crimes. Kill Michael when he got too close. Kill Tiffany in an apparent suicide. And then? Well, there’s one witch left ...

“If this is right, you’re in deep shit,” Adam said, around the time I came to the same conclusion.

“I’m not backing off.”

“I don’t expect you to. Just don’t blast me with an energy bolt if I dog your steps until this investigation is done.”

“I won’t.” I eased back on the bed, pulling my feet up. “My spell casting has fizzled, remember? Damned inconvenient time for the flu.”

Adam went still. Too still. I was about to ask if he was okay, when he grabbed his laptop and began typing furiously. When he looked up, his eyes were dark with worry.

“What have you been eating?” he asked.

“Um, lots of stuff. As usual. Most of it bad for me.”

“No, what have you been eating regularly? In the last few days. Something I might have had, too.” His gaze shot to the door. “The coffee shop. You had three meals from them, and I’ve had one ... No, I was feeling a little off before that. Something else then. What have you been eating a lot of? Especially something given to you by someone else—”

His gaze swung to the table and he let out an oath. I grabbed the box of cult cookies.

“You weren’t eating these, though,” I said. “You finished off Paige’s.”

He shook his head. “No, I swiped a cult one, too. I had to see if they lived up to the advertising. I liked Paige’s better, so I finished hers.”

“Witch-hunters are young women, right?”

“Yep, and there’s a whole house of them on the hill, making cookies. Who gave you the box?”

“Megan, but it was sitting on the counter before that. I’d stepped outside with one of the girls. Anyone could have come in and dosed it.” I thought back to every contact I’d had with the young women at the cult. “It could be Megan, could be Deirdre, could be Vee ...”

I remembered someone else. Someone I’d had far less contact with. “The new girl. She was watching me, and she saw me talking to Tiffany. Remember when we were at the house while Tiffany was being killed? Megan was asking where she was.”

“Looks like we’ve got our—”

“Except for one thing. She was Claire’s replacement. She arrived in town at the same time I did.”

“Doesn’t mean she wasn’t here before. But, yeah, that makes it a little less clear cut. We need to take a closer look at all those girls. I can’t say for sure that it’s the cookies, but that’s my guess. There are a bunch of poisons that can inhibit spellcasting.”

“Poisons?”

“That’s why I’m worried. I know you’re going to hate this, but I want to get you to Portland, pay a visit to Dr. Lee.”

Lee was the physician used by most area supernaturals when they had a health concern that went beyond a cold or flu. In an emergency, we can use a regular hospital, but whenever possible we avoid it—there are things in our systems that can give wonky test results and raise eyebrows.

“So the theory would be that this witch-hunter poisoned me to reduce my spellcasting so she can get the jump on me,” I said as we prepared to leave.

“Could be. Or she might just be protecting herself against you. That Bible was left out for a reason. She knew you’d be involved in the case, and I can’t see why she’d tip her hand like that unless it was a warning.”

“So she’s not targeting me, just telling me to back off? Mmm, not so sure. I see it more as a challenge.”

Adam’s look said he didn’t like that explanation. A challenge said she intended to kill me no matter how hard I fought.

My cell phone rang. It was Bruyn.

“You were looking for me?” he said.

“I was. I wanted to get a look at the crime-scene photos if you have them.”

“Sure do. If you’ve got a minute, swing by now. I’ve got some news you might want to hear.”