Witches of Ash and Ruin

by E. Latimer

  “Of course not.” Normally Sam would have been annoyed by the casual scorn in his father’s voice, but right now he was too eager to find out more. “Did they die in one of the circles or did someone dump them there?”

  His father scowled. “That’s none of your concern. You think it’s right, to think about these things? You think God would approve?”

  Sam bit back a retort that his father maybe should think a little harder about these things. Instead he replied, “I better get home. Lots of reading to do for Bible study.” His father didn’t answer, just cracked open his laptop and began typing furiously, so Samuel turned and made his way down the hallway, stealing a few jelly beans from Bertie’s desk at the front. The older woman gave him a wave without looking up from her work, her round face pale.

  The poor woman had probably never written up a press release like this one.

  Sam rode home, his mouth full of jelly beans, already planning what he was going to post on the forums.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MEINER

  The car ride over had tested the limits of Meiner’s patience.

  They’d carpooled, and of course Cora had claimed the passenger seat, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. She got in some subtle jabs at Meiner and managed to bring up the fact they’d dated briefly, darting a furtive look at Dayna in the rearview mirror.

  Meiner’s temper had surged so suddenly she’d sucked a breath in and held it, forcing herself to relax. Of course she’d bring that up.

  Now they stood in the middle of a scrubby field surrounded by a cluster of slate-colored rocks. The stone circle amplified magic and allowed the practitioner a more direct line to power. The gods were only a whisper away, and any other time she would have been charged with excitement. It was a place of power, sacred, even.

  But at the moment it just seemed…wet.

  The sky overhead was gray, and there was a constant steady drizzle. It hardly seemed enough to warrant an umbrella, and yet the rain seeped through Meiner’s thin jacket. It twisted her hair into damp locks, leaving her shivering.

  Beside her, Cora shifted, reaching up to pull the hood of her raincoat over her face. Meiner silently hated her for being more prepared.

  Reagan exchanged a grumpy look with Dayna and tugged her knit cap farther down over her brows. “What are we supposed to find here? A chalk outline? A flashing sign that says, The murder was here?”

  “That would be helpful.” Dayna kicked at the wet grass, crossing her arms over her chest. Droplets of water dotted her dark hair and ran down her face and neck.

  When Dayna looked up and caught Meiner staring, she scowled, and Meiner smirked back, lifting an eyebrow. Sure enough, Dayna huffed and turned away.

  Okay, she’d admit it, Dayna might be sort of cute.

  But she was annoying as hell. And she seemed to overreact to pretty much everything. That was all Meiner needed, another version of Cora jumping down her throat all the time.

  “What are we looking for? I mean, aside from a bunch of pointy rocks?” Cora demanded.

  No one answered. Yemi, who clutched her metal tea thermos, looked around warily, as if she expected the murderer to pop out from behind one of the stones, and the Callighan women had drifted away from the group. Brenna and Faye were talking in low voices, heads bent together, and Bronagh was standing very still, face tilted to the sky.

  Grandma King picked her way carefully around the standing stones, staring down at the flat gray rocks. She was turning a cigarette over in her hands, though she hadn’t yet lit it.

  Meiner frowned, trying to study her grandmother’s face discreetly. How much of this was Gran’s magic guiding her, and how much was the disease claiming her mind? Maybe they were chasing something that didn’t exist.

  It was all well and good to sit around and stare at the death card, or make dire predictions about coming doom, but what did they actually have to go on? Only that a witch had died. That meant nothing; it meant that witches had enemies. Sometimes lots of them. That was evident enough by the town’s reaction to her grandmother. They’d stopped for brunch on the way over, and one of the women in the diner had gone sheet white at the mere sight of her, a fact Grandma King either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

  The rumors about her gran were ridiculous. Hyperbolic and hysterical, bedtime tales told to witchlings to scare them straight. If the witches in this town were stupid enough to believe them, it wasn’t her coven’s problem.

  Of course, she wouldn’t be that surprised if someone wanted to murder Gran next. It was clear she’d made enemies in this town, including her ex-coven.

  She glanced over at Bronagh. Gran wouldn’t tell her what had happened—likely she wouldn’t remember, or would decide it was “none of her damn business”—but Meiner resolved to get Bronagh alone at some point, to ask her exactly why Gran left.

  After all of this was over, that is, and they were finished standing around damp fields staring at rocks.

  She grumbled under her breath, mood surging even lower. The tightness in her chest turned to a slow burn as she clenched and unclenched her fists, trying to wrestle her temper down, to keep her expression flat and unaffected.

  Likely she was standing here in the pissing rain for nothing. She sighed and balled her fists in her pockets, wishing she was somewhere warm. Maybe somewhere with coffee.

  Somehow it made her mood even worse to see Dayna and Reagan had inched closer, and Dayna had curled an arm around her friend, rubbing at Reagan’s arms as they huddled together, stamping their feet and shivering.

  “Hot tea, love?” Yemi raised her brows at Meiner, offering the thermos.

  Normally she would have turned it down, but now she only hesitated a moment before accepting. She was freezing. Just wrapping her hands around the warm surface was a relief. A little self-consciously, she poured a bit of the steaming liquid into the cup Yemi handed her. Yemi smiled and patted her arm before turning away, and Meiner cleared her throat, temper fizzling out.

  There was something about the woman that made a lump rise in her throat. Maybe the way she fussed over her daughter and Dayna, mothering both of them. Or the warmth of her personality. It wasn’t possible to be any less like Meiner’s grandmother.

  “I’ll take some, thanks,” Dayna said, and when Meiner handed the thermos over, Dayna’s fingers brushed hers. It was the lightest touch, but it was enough to send an electric current over Meiner’s skin. When she took the thermos, Meiner turned away, annoyed.

  Had Dayna done that deliberately?

  There was a loud ping, followed by the sound of Dayna grumbling, and Reagan asked, “Sam again? Ask if he’s still hanging out with that Bible study.”

  “He is.”

  Meiner shoved her hands deeper in her pockets, watching them as they bent their heads over Dayna’s phone. “What a dick,” Reagan said, still shivering and shifting from foot to foot.

  Was Sam an ex, maybe? The way Dayna acted, something must have actually gone down. And what had Reagan meant by Bible study?

  “You know, I can hex him for you if you like.” Faye had wandered back over, pulling her hood lower over her eyes.

  “Faye, no,” Brenna scolded her. “We talked about this.”

  “Just a little hex”—Faye’s smile was sharp, and Meiner wondered if the woman was actually joking—“to make his tongue shrivel in his mouth.”

  “You terrify me,” Reagan said.

  The distant sound of a car door slamming jerked her head up. When she turned back to the lot, there was a green minivan parked next to her car.

  “Ah, that will be her now.” Grandma King was staring at the van as well. She pulled herself up taller, shoulders square in her black sweater. She looked a little like she had before. Commanding, instead of lost and confused.

  Meiner’s stomach twisted. “Who?”

  A family was spilling out of the van, a couple and two children. The driver emerged more slowly, a short, round woman with a bristly ponytail.
r />   Grandma King didn’t immediately answer as they watched the family approach. Finally, when they were less than ten feet away, she said in a low voice, “The one who found the body.”

  Meiner’s eyes widened. Now that they were closer, she could see that the woman’s red fleece vest had Shamrock Tours embroidered across the pocket. Underneath, the vest proclaimed her to be Deborah.

  The kids ran forward, colorful rubber boots flashing pink and red against the damp grass. The parents followed, studying the stone circles with vague interest. The tour guide hung back, approaching almost timidly, eyes searching the field.

  “Shamrock Tours, is it?” Gran smiled.

  “Oh aye. We do tours of all the sights in this area.” Deborah cleared her throat. Her gaze kept flickering to the nearest stone circle. “I better get to it. Feel free to listen in.”

  Gran turned to the others, eyes glittering. “Come on, then. Let’s get the tour.”

  Dayna and Reagan shared an incredulous look, and Cora tugged her hood farther over her eyes, muttering bad-temperedly. Behind them, the Callighans whispered to one another, and Yemi placed the thermos back into her purse, brows furrowed.

  Feeling her face start to burn, Meiner fell in behind her gran before the others came within earshot. She grasped her grandmother’s sleeve. “We’re here to get information, not a tour.” Her voice was tight with controlled anger.

  Grandma King jerked her arm out of Meiner’s grip. “I’m not so far gone you need to treat me like an imbecile, girl. I’m not your mother.”

  The anger flared up abruptly, gnawing at her stomach, making her chest tight. Meiner stiffened and forced her expression into blankness, fists curled at her sides.

  She was so fucking sick of this.

  As Grandma King lapsed into her illness she did this more and more, going on about how foolish Meiner’s mother was, how she should be grateful the woman didn’t stay. How selfish Stephanie had been, cast out from the family manor, cut off from the King name forever. She’d grown up not knowing who she hated more, the woman who’d picked her boyfriend over her own family, or the one who’d forced her to make that decision. Lately Grandma King was winning that particular contest.

  “You’re lucky she left. Now you’ll get the coven.”

  Grandma King cackled and turned away. Cora was now glaring daggers at Meiner, who shrugged bad-temperedly. Cora overreacted every time the subject came up, and she didn’t seem to clue in to the fact that Gran was very obviously trying to stir the pot.

  Meiner had no intention of inheriting anything. She was gone as soon as she reached her full power. But she wasn’t about to tell Cora that.

  Gran was now following the tour guide over to where the family was standing. The husband looked them over briefly, shrugging, and the woman tugged the collar of her raincoat up under her chin, glaring at Grandma King.

  Deborah launched into a history of the standing stones, raising her voice over the sound of the rain drumming on her umbrella. It would have been mildly interesting if Meiner’s shoes hadn’t been completely soaked.

  The others looked unsure of this new development. Reagan pressed her lips together, brows furrowed, and Dayna shifted from foot to foot. Even Yemi looked impatient, glancing from Grandma King to the tour guide. Only the Callighans seemed unaffected. Brenna was even nodding along with some of the tour guide’s “fun facts,” a faint smile on her face, as if she found it all terribly interesting.

  Somewhere near the end of the spiel both children ran into the field, and the parents followed after them. The tour guide trailed off, deflated. She tilted her umbrella back to look at Grandma King, and the rain sloughed off in miniature rivers.

  “Nasty day out, isn’t it?”

  Grandma King smiled, and it wasn’t a particularly nice smile. The tour guide didn’t seem to notice. “Miserable.”

  There was silence then, and Meiner shifted impatiently. Her grandmother seemed to be waiting for something, like she was expecting the woman to just spit out a confession.

  “Miserable,” Grandma King repeated, and she smiled again.

  Cora blew out another frustrated breath, and this time Meiner couldn’t help but agree. She was opening her mouth to suggest they go, when the tour guide said:

  “It’s such a shame….” She paused, gaze drifting to the larger stone circle.

  The other coven looked puzzled, but beside her Cora leaned forward eagerly.

  There was her grandmother, standing unmoved by the rain and grinning like a hyena. Shit, not again.

  The tour guide hesitated. “I’m sure you’ve seen it on the news. What happened to that woman.”

  Grandma King nodded, expression sorrowful. “Poor lass. They say she was found outside the stone circle. So strange.”

  “Inside.” Deborah’s voice was a dry whisper. Meiner barely heard it over the rain.

  “What was that, dear?” Now her smile was downright grandmotherly, and Meiner felt a pang of disgust and horror.

  “Oh, I was just…I was the one who found her. It was awful. She was inside the bigger circle.” She pointed a shaking finger at the stones. “Just there.”

  “How horrible,” Grandma King said with relish. She glided forward, taking the woman’s arm. “You poor wee thing. It must have been traumatic.”

  “She was just lying there.” The woman looked haunted, and Meiner noticed she was clutching a pendant on a chain around her neck, a silver replica of St. Brigid’s cross. “She was…Her eyes.”

  “What about her eyes?” Grandma King was under the woman’s umbrella now. Deborah’s gaze was faraway and glassy, and she didn’t seem to notice the old woman had weaseled her way into her personal space. Grandma King put a hand on her arm. “You tell us all about it.”

  Unease stirred Meiner’s gut. She remembered the blank face of the garda as he rattled off the details of the crime scene. Deborah the tour guide had much the same look on her face now.

  “They were still open, so wide.” She gripped the handle of her umbrella with white fingers. “But that wasn’t even the worst part. I…I shouldn’t say.”

  Grandma King said nothing, only patted her arm. Beside her, Bronagh was watching, blue eyes narrowed. Meiner felt a pang of recognition. It wasn’t just that Bronagh didn’t like her gran, she didn’t trust her.

  “Her mouth was open, and…it was empty.”

  “Empty.” Grandma King’s voice was flat.

  Deborah didn’t look at her. She was trembling all over. “No teeth. No tongue. I can’t close my eyes. I see it constantly. That and…the symbol.”

  “He left a symbol.”

  “It was on the rock in this awful rust color.”

  “Blood,” Grandma King said softly, and Deborah nodded.

  Laughter from the field made them glance up. The family was heading back, the littler child tucked under the father’s arm, the wife looking thunderous as she dragged the older one by the hand.

  Deborah’s umbrella jerked in her hands. She blinked, expression bewildered. “Oh lord, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

  Grandma King patted her arm again. That hyena smile was back as she ducked out from under the umbrella and into the rain, making straight for the bigger stone circle.

  Deborah wasted no time in bundling her customers back into the van, hurriedly waving good-bye to Grandma King. The old woman didn’t notice. She was standing in the middle of the stone circle, a look of grim satisfaction on her face as she struck a match against one of the stones and used it to light a cigarette. The Callighans joined her there, passing their hands over one stone and then the next.

  Meiner tried to remember exactly where the gardai had been standing when they’d driven up to the scene. She was fairly sure it had been in the center of one of the circles, where the grass was worn away, leaving shallow puddles in the shadows of the stones.

  She hadn’t seen a symbol, though.

  Meiner wandered around the stone circles after the other witches, her shoes
kicking up droplets on the wet grass. She wondered which stone had been marked. That tall one to the left, maybe, with the slanted top, or the flattest stone in the circle, almost tombstone-shaped. Someone could have written on that one pretty easily.

  There was only silence now, save for the sound of the rain on the grass, and the witches’ feverish mumbling. It was Brenna who found it. She moved a hand over the stone in the center, and something flickered under her palm.

  A flash of rust red, and then slowly it seeped to the surface, a shape painted on the gray stone. It was strange, similar to a pentacle, but not one she’d seen before. There was no star inside, more like a complex pattern of crossed lines. It looked Celtic. And old.

  Meiner couldn’t hold back a shiver. It seemed sharp somehow, like the symbol itself might draw blood. It was vaguely familiar, too, though she couldn’t place it. When she glanced over she was surprised to see Grandma King staring at the symbol with wide eyes. Her face had gone pale, and for a moment it looked like she was about to speak, but she merely shook her head.

  Meiner frowned at her.

  “Does anyone recognize it?” Reagan asked.

  “It’s familiar.” Dayna looked frustrated. “Damn it, why do I feel like I should know this?”

  “You’re a little young.” Bronagh’s voice was heavy, and when they looked over at her she sighed. “It’s a symbol I haven’t seen in years, and one I’d hoped never to see again.” She glanced sideways at Dayna. “That murder-obsessed ex-boyfriend of yours may have shown it to you.”

  Dayna’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my god. It’s a signature, isn’t it?”

  Cora looked annoyed. “A what?”

  “A serial killer’s mark,” Bronagh explained. “Specifically the Butcher of Manchester’s. He was all over the news years and years ago. They never caught him.”

  In the heavy silence that followed, Brenna let her hand drop, and the lines on the stone faded. Reagan nudged Dayna. “I’d say your ravens were definitely a bad omen.”

  “They’re not my ravens,” Dayna said, but her brow was creased with worry, her fingers tangled in the ends of her hair as she wrapped strands around them. Her obvious anxiety was unsettling to watch, and Meiner let her hand drift to her pocket, fingers closing over the reassuring shape of the pill bottle.