Witches of Ash and Ruin

by E. Latimer

  “Shit, Meiner, your gran.”

  Meiner turned at Cora’s voice, realizing her grandmother was already halfway across the lawn toward the parking lot. Even from there they could hear her muttering angrily. “Those damn kids, trying to leave me behind.”

  It took Meiner a moment to realize where her grandmother was headed.

  She sighed, glancing over at Cora, who looked exasperated. Then they both went after the old woman before she could climb into the van with the tourists.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DAYNA

  “Symbols in blood. How clichéd.”

  Reagan tapped her pencil on the flower-patterned teacup in front of her, frowning at her laptop—a battered hand-me-down with a chaotic assortment of rock-band stickers and NASA logos—where she’d pulled up a picture of the Butcher’s calling card. This one was carved into a wall, but it was undeniably the same symbol. “You’d think someone offing witches would be more original.”

  “Why would a serial killer go after witches?” Cora demanded. “How does he even know who to target?”

  Bronagh looked grim. “The only thing I know about him comes from the news, I’m afraid. I wasn’t familiar with any of his victims.”

  Dayna stared at the picture on the screen, gut churning. The ravens had been disturbing enough, but this was far worse. Grandma King’s warning about more witches dying had raised the hair on the back of her neck, and now it seemed chillingly accurate. The very term serial implied—no, required—more deaths. She kept glancing from Yemi and Reagan to the Callighans, trying not to picture losing any of them.

  As far as she knew, there were few choices aside from her coven in town. A couple of hedge witches, maybe, a few people who dabbled in tarot in secret. But the real power in Carman was all here in this house. If someone was aiming to kill actual witches, the women in her coven might as well have giant targets on their backs.

  “Okay, so, this serial killer.” Cora glanced around at the others. “What do we actually know about him?”

  There was a beat of silence as they stared at the screen, punctuated by the gentle clink of Brenna stirring sugar into her tea.

  “We know he’s got a Wikipedia page.” Meiner held up her phone. “There’s probably a dozen articles linked here.”

  “We know he’s killing again, abi? And that he’s able to tell who’s a witch and who isn’t.” Reagan toyed with her choker, fingering the black stone in the front.

  “Maybe he’s a witch himself,” Dayna said. Her thoughts were racing as she tried to imagine what that would mean. A killer who used magic was a terrifying thought, the twisted psyche of a serial killer mixed with the power of dark magic. She shuddered.

  “Can’t just be that.” Reagan frowned. “First the ravens, and then this morning the news was going on about dead cows. Omens like that require serious juju, right?” She raised her brows at Bronagh, who nodded reluctantly.

  “I’ll get the scrying bowl.” Yemi vanished into the living room.

  “And I’ll pray to the great oracle, Google.” Reagan pulled the laptop back over.

  Minutes later they’d assembled a makeshift research post at the long oak table, scattering notebooks and pencils between brass teapots and sugar tins, Reagan’s computer set up on the metal tea tray to protect it from crumbs. The older witches were scrying and reading cards, save for Grandma King, who seemed to have lapsed into a kind of dazed silence, staring out the window above the sink. Meanwhile, Dayna, Cora, and Meiner watched over Reagan’s shoulder as she pulled up article after article. Several times, Faye looked up from the shallow dish she was examining and muttered darkly about “witchlings these days.”

  After nearly an hour Reagan smacked her finger down on the exit button, her voice irritated. “There are so many articles, it’s going to take hours to read through. And there’s no hint of magic in any of these. He just seems like…a regular person.”

  “Oh sure. Killed people, diced them up, carved symbols all over the walls…” Cora said. “Totally regular behavior.”

  Reagan rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. He’s got no magic.”

  Dayna shifted, straightening up, her back protesting her hunched position. She was standing close enough that her arm brushed Meiner’s, and the taller girl glanced at her, face unreadable. Dayna felt herself blush, which sent a flash of annoyance through her. “Um, do you mind backing up?”

  “Well, excuse me, Your Majesty.” Meiner took a step back, holding her hands out in front of her. “Didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

  Dayna narrowed her eyes. “It’s not my problem you don’t have any sense of personal space.”

  “That’s not it at all. It’s just that you’re so short I didn’t notice you there.” That annoying, cocky grin was back.

  Yemi cleared her throat pointedly, and Dayna paused, feeling her face burn. The others were clearly pretending not to notice, save for Reagan, who looked as though she were trying to hold back laughter.

  Meiner seemed to have a special way of pushing Dayna’s buttons.

  Thankfully Reagan came to her rescue. “Okay, let’s think about the details of the murders. He takes a body part every time…maybe for some kind of ritual.”

  “Sure,” Cora said, “but why witches specifically? And if Bronagh is right and the guy hasn’t been active for years, why start now?”

  “This isn’t working.” Faye shoved the bowl away bad-temperedly, and the water sloshed out over the tablecloth. This earned her a reproving look from Yemi. “None of this is going to work.”

  “We need hours and hours to assemble information, which we don’t have.” Brenna sighed. “We’re running out of time.”

  “Or…” Reagan’s eyes grew wide, and she looked sideways at Dayna. “We need someone who has already devoted hours and hours to researching the Butcher.”

  It only took a second before it clicked, and Dayna groaned, shaking her head. “Are you really going to make me do this?”

  Reagan shrugged apologetically. “You know I’d never suggest it unless it was literally a matter of life and death, but Faye’s right. We don’t know how much time we have.”

  “Let me guess.” Meiner raised a brow. “The ex?”

  Dayna ignored this, giving Reagan her most woeful look. “I hate you so much right now.”

  “You dumped him,” Faye said pointedly. “It’s not that bad.”

  “And it’s painfully obvious he’s still in love with you.” Reagan grinned. “He’ll probably hand over his life’s work if you ask him.”

  Dayna waved a hand at them, face glowing hot. The very last thing she wanted was a discussion about her love life in front of Meiner King. “All right, okay,” she said hastily. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  Brenna was frowning, brows creased, and Dayna could guess what she was about to say. “It’s okay,” Dayna said. “Really. I got this.”

  “Of course she does.” Faye jabbed one finger at Dayna. “You’re strong. You’re not going to put up with any of his church bullshit. Get in, get the information, get out.”

  Dayna cleared her throat, glancing at the floor. Meiner and Cora were both directing curious stares at her, and she had to force herself not to squirm in her chair. She really didn’t want to have to explain anything to the new witches. Or talk about it at all, actually.

  Brenna seemed to notice her discomfort, because she added hurriedly, “And in the meantime, what? If that doesn’t pan out, what are we left with?”

  “You know what I suggested before.” Grandma King had turned from the window now, and she raised her thin eyebrows at Bronagh. “You know how effective it would be.”

  “And I can scarcely believe you have the balls to mention it to me again,” Bronagh snapped. “We aren’t doing a contact reading, King. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t let your witchlings do one either.”

  Grandma King scowled, tugging at the collar of her sweater. “I’ll thank you not to tell me
what to do with my own coven.”

  Dayna frowned at Reagan, puzzled, and Reagan shrugged. “What exactly is a contact reading?”

  “Contact, as in, one of us must have come in contact with something the murderer touched, or the murderer himself.” Bronagh gave them a sharp look. “And none of you are to ever attempt it.”

  Reagan gave a noncommittal shrug and kicked her boots up on the table. “I dunno, sounds like a solid plan to me.”

  Faye gave her a disapproving look and said, “Feet off the table, Reagan,” at the same time Yemi cried, “Nawa o! Get your dirty boots off!”

  Reagan rolled her eyes at Dayna. “This is why I never tell people about my two moms. They’re so embarrassing.”

  Brenna ignored her. “Not a contact reading, then. A joint reading. With this many of us it should work.”

  There was a pause. The older witches glanced around the table at one another.

  “We need at least seven for a joint reading, and there’s only the five full witches,” Yemi said. “That won’t be enough power.”

  Bronagh was nodding thoughtfully. “But if they ascend, we could do one. It could work.”

  Yemi looked from the old woman to her daughter, frowning. “Their ascension isn’t happening yet. They haven’t picked their gods.”

  Brenna pressed her lips together, like she was fighting what she wanted to say. She gave Dayna and Reagan a meaningful look.

  Dayna sat up straight. She’d picked her god years ago. Had known almost from the beginning she’d pledge to Danu. Reagan was the same way with the goddess Brigid, and when Dayna glanced over at her, her friend was leaning forward, hands on the table.

  “Yes, we have, Ma. We’ve told you, we’re ready.”

  “It’s true. She’s a great witch.” When Reagan gave her a grateful look, she shrugged and grinned back. “What? You know it’s true.” Anyone could scry and read cards, but Reagan had dedicated herself to the craft her whole life, could recite every spell she’d ever learned.

  “They’re still young to have so much power.” Yemi fidgeted with her teacup, turning it around on the saucer. “I don’t know…”

  Dayna pressed her lips shut, forcing herself not to comment, even though she felt ready to burst. She caught Meiner’s eye almost accidentally and was startled at the look on her face. Meiner was staring at her grandmother with an expression Dayna couldn’t pin down. Frustration? Longing?

  Beside her, Cora shifted, her face eager. “We’re ready—”

  “Not you,” Grandma King snapped, without looking at Cora or her granddaughter.

  “But she just said they can’t.” She looked sullen, but Grandma King waved her off.

  Brenna glanced nervously from her mother to Grandma King. “Er, well, best to do it on the first quarter moon. Tomorrow night, actually.”

  Faye nodded. “We’ll have to pick one.”

  “We could do it together.” It was Meiner who spoke now, and Dayna could see the look on her face had turned from frustration to hunger, probably more transparent than she realized. “Get it all done at once.”

  “Sorry, lass.” Bronagh sounded apologetic. “You don’t mix two covens’ ascension days. It’s too complicated to risk something going wrong.”

  “Reagan and Dayna are ready, Yemi. And we shouldn’t wait,” Brenna said gently. “Not with the way things are. With the way they may become.”

  Nobody had to ask what she meant.

  “Aye, you’re right. Tomorrow night,” Grandma King said. “We’ll do it then.”

  “It should be us,” Meiner said, and Dayna sat up straight, anger pulsing through her.

  “Hell no,” Dayna said. “If anyone ascends it’s Reagan and me.” The scorching glare Meiner shot her now was nothing like the minor irritation and amusement from earlier. She scowled back, arms folded over her chest.

  If Meiner wanted a fight, she was going to get one.

  “It should be us,” Meiner repeated, turning back to Grandma King. “Cora and I are both ready. And we’re older.”

  “By, like, two years,” Reagan protested.

  “We’ve been practicing magic longer; it just makes sense,” Cora said, and then scowled as Reagan cut her a sideways look and sucked her teeth.

  Grandma King ignored Meiner. “Dayna’s right. We’re on your home turf, Bronagh, so we’ll assist you with yours.”

  There was silence, and everyone looked at Yemi, who finally sighed heavily and said, “Oh, all right, then. I suppose it was going to be inevitable.”

  Dayna felt her chest swell with excitement. Beside her, Reagan burst up from her chair and hugged her, and Dayna laughed as she jumped up and down. Then she danced halfway around the table to hug her mother, and Yemi smiled reluctantly and patted her arm.

  Dayna glanced over at Meiner. The older girl was staring at her grandmother with the kind of pure loathing that made a shiver drop down her back. A second later it was gone, and Meiner’s face was completely composed again. Like a marble mask.

  If she’d blinked, Dayna thought, she might have missed it.

  But why should she feel bad? This was just as much their right. And she’d been waiting for ages. She hadn’t counted on it coming so soon; she’d thought it would be at least another year. A witchling was supposed to be able to ascend as soon as she hit her sixteenth birthday, but Yemi had been so cautious. When they’d both turned seventeen, Reagan had joked despairingly that they would be Bronagh’s age by the time they were allowed.

  But now she might be a mere day from a direct connection to her goddess, to becoming a full witch.

  She felt like she was vibrating in her chair; the excitement was really setting in. Soon she and Reagan would be full witches.

  And the most important part: ascending meant having access to the type of power that could help protect her coven. They were stronger if she and Reagan ascended. Safer from whatever they might have to face.

  There was a sudden thud, and Dayna jerked, startled. Cora had shot up, tipping her chair over. She scowled at Grandma King. For a moment it seemed she was about to say something, then she stomped out of the kitchen and vanished down the hall.

  The witches looked at one another, all but Meiner, who stared straight ahead, her body rigid. Dayna could see a muscle in her jaw twitching. It looked like she was debating following Cora.

  Dayna almost wished she would.

  “Good.” Bronagh nodded sharply, as if that settled it. Apparently it did, because Grandma King began to shuffle for the stairs.

  “Very well. The quarter moon it is.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DAYNA

  When Dayna came downstairs on Sunday morning, she found her father at the kitchen table with an unfamiliar woman. She had long, pin-straight hair, the same brown as Dayna’s. Her eyes were dark and set a little too deep, perhaps made more obvious by the bruise-like shadows underneath. The woman’s eyebrows were very thick and black, and they knit together as she stared at Dayna.

  A great deal of things hit her at once. Recognition first, swiftly followed by horror.

  Your mother’s coming home this weekend, her father had said. She’s doing well enough to be released.

  She’d completely pushed it out of her mind after everything that happened.

  Dayna had seen pictures of Fiona before—there were portraits hanging in the guest room—but the woman at the table barely looked like that person anymore. It occurred to her exactly how little she knew about her.

  When Dayna was younger, her father had explained that Fiona Walsh had gone away because she was very sick, and camp was full of fresh air. And she’d believed him for a while. Until little things began chipping away at this story. Dayna remembered the day she’d told Reagan, how her friend’s reaction had made her realize other families didn’t simply send people away.

  A year later, she’d found flyers for Camp Blood of the Lamb in the church office and discovered people were sent there when they didn’t fit in with the church. When th
ey were unstable, or sinful. Or they were simply inconvenient.

  After this realization, things had been different. Church members had commented to her father about what a quiet child she was. How well-behaved. Nobody knew it was because Dayna was petrified of being sent away. If she screamed too loud at a birthday party. If she cried when she fell down. If she didn’t do her homework.

  If she made her father angry, he might send her away.

  Fiona’s thirteen-year stay at camp seemed to have drained all color from her face and narrowed her down. She was incredibly skinny, collarbone showing above the sleeveless cardigan she wore. Her arms jutted out at her sides, pencil thin, and she held her teacup awkwardly, like she wasn’t sure what to do with it. She sat very straight in her seat.

  All Dayna could think in that moment was What the hell did they do to this woman?

  The reverend spoke first. “Dayna, this is Fiona.”

  As if he were introducing her to a friend at brunch.

  The woman at the table stood, unfolding long limbs. As she moved toward Dayna, it felt rather like being approached by a praying mantis. She lifted an arm, and Dayna flinched, almost expecting some sort of awkward embrace. Instead the woman’s hand darted out, and she seized something between her finger and thumb. Her necklace, Dayna

  realized.

  Fiona Walsh plucked at the cross pendant, examining it with a strangely intense interest. “This is an interesting piece.”

  “Saint Brigid’s cross,” Dayna said automatically, still staring at the woman’s face.

  “How lovely. I don’t wear jewelry. It tends to—” She stopped abruptly, her face blank, still staring at the charm pinched between her fingers.

  The reverend was there suddenly, looming over them. He took Fiona’s arm and steered her back toward the table, his face grave. “Did you take your medication yet today?”

  Fiona blinked rapidly. “Oh yes. I did, this morning before you picked me up.”