Witches of Ash and Ruin

by E. Latimer

  She winced, cigarette falling to the pavement, sparks scattering over the sidewalk. The hum of voices all spoke at once. And then, just as abruptly, they dropped off. There was only one left. The soft, sibilant voice of the woman in the woods. Caorthannach.

  You could have him. Take him.

  Cora’s head snapped up. She stared at the couple making their slow, shuffling way toward the parking lot.

  The voice hissed over the rush of the blood in her ears, the pulse of her heart.

  Do it, witchling.

  What had the goddess said in the forest? She needed power to face what was coming. She could do this. Had to do it, for her coven.

  Cora started forward, sweat breaking on her brow, slicking the palm of her hand as she dipped into her pocket and felt the slender shape of the dagger in its sheath. She hadn’t been sure why she’d brought the knife that morning; it had been a split-second decision as she’d gone past the dresser. The light overhead had slid along the golden snakes on the handle, making the gems of their eyes glitter. She’d picked it up and pressed it into her palm. The weight felt right in her hand, so she’d slipped it into her bag.

  Now, as she followed the couple into the parking lot, it still felt right. But the thought of it…of plunging the blade into a man’s chest. It would not be like cutting paper, or watermelon, or even slicing into chicken at dinner. This was living flesh…a human being.

  “I don’t know if I can do this.” She hadn’t meant to mumble it out loud, and as soon as the words slipped past her lips she flinched. The goddess stirred in the back of her mind, and heat crashed through her, burning her insides. Cora clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain.

  You will. And then, You must.

  There was a flash behind her eyes, and then she was seeing a second set of images. Cora started, drawing a sharp breath. Yes, she could still see the parking lot, half empty, surrounded by sad little shrubs. She could still see the man staggering down the center, heading toward a black pickup truck. But she could also see images laid over that. She could see the black truck careening down the road, veering wildly onto the sidewalk. The wide, white eyes of a woman in a tan jacket, grocery bags in both hands, as she turned, too slowly. Too late.

  Cora didn’t hear her scream, but she could see the woman’s mouth open wide, a second before the truck was on top of her.

  She shook her head, frantic, jerking herself out of the vision. She braced herself against the hood of the car in the space beside her, head spinning, breath ragged in her throat.

  Cora had scried before. She’d even had her share of prophetic dreams, but this had been…something different.

  Go, the voice in her head hissed, and she stumbled forward. Dazed, she reached into her pocket just as the man climbed into his truck. The man’s companion was struggling to leverage herself onto the high step of the passenger side. She giggled and fell back.

  Cora wrapped her hand around the hilt of the dagger, smoothed shaking fingers over the scales. She took a step forward.

  The man snapped something at the woman.

  Cora took another step forward, the knife burning against her fingers. It felt like a warning, or an admonishment.

  She could do this, couldn’t she? For the woman on the street. For the goddess. For herself.

  The drunk woman laughed again and finally managed to mount the step. She’d barely shut the door when the man started the truck, slamming into reverse without bothering to look in his rearview mirror. Cora gasped, stumbling back as the truck came within a few feet of her, then peeled away, leaving a smoking rubber stain on the concrete.

  She stayed frozen, gaping after the truck as it disappeared down the street.

  Rage blazed through her a moment later, followed by furious heat, and Cora staggered forward, a scream of pain tearing from her lips. She swung wildly, fist crashing into the window of the nearest car, which broke under her knuckles, sending a spiderweb of cracks spreading out toward the edges.

  She turned on her heel, stomping across the lot, ignoring the group of men who’d come out of the pub and were staring after her openmouthed.

  She’d failed. Maybe it was the heat blazing through her, or the fact that the rage that drove her was not hers alone, but something told her the goddess would not have patience for long.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  DAYNA

  Dayna didn’t sleep that night.

  She’d snuck in late, and Fiona hadn’t been waiting up for her this time. Her father was in bed, too, thank god—she was still technically grounded, and he was probably furious with her.

  She spent half the night running searches on her laptop, poring over the same articles on Carman again and again, going through lists of ancient Celtic symbols—she swore if she closed her eyes her vision would dance with them. Between this she ran searches on the phrase widow incorporated and found nothing helpful—which wasn’t surprising, considering that the sergeant had likely done the same. When she did attempt to sleep she couldn’t stop thinking about Sam, the guilt and panic in his expression. His stammered excuses. It felt like the bottom had dropped out of her stomach.

  There was no excuse for what he’d done. And to think she’d felt guilty about brushing him off when he’d asked to get back together. Hell, she’d even considered it, however briefly.

  What if she had taken him back and then found out? The mere thought made anger burn her insides.

  Her wound seemed to throb with each heartbeat, and by the time she went to bed she was too keyed up to sleep. Her brain was more than happy to fall into the familiar patterns of feverish obsession. She was breathing just fine. Deep and even. So why did her chest feel tight? Was it hot in here? Were her breaths getting shallower? It was just the panic.

  She tried all her usual tricks. Thinking of a favorite book or movie for each letter of the alphabet, mentally walking through the layout of the coven house, and even trying to remember every detail of her good memories from last summer. The lunch they’d had in the apple orchard for Reagan’s birthday, or the time they’d all jammed into Reagan’s minivan to head to the farmers market and Bronagh had left all her Werther’s wrappers on the floor. Faye had lectured her about it the entire way back, and somehow the wrappers had mysteriously ended up in her pockets.

  But even the best of her memories didn’t seem to be working tonight.

  It was this kind of night that made her think twice about taking medication, that made her fears seem ridiculous compared to what she was putting herself through. She was so utterly sick of feeling this way. Of having nothing to fight this with. The counting game could only help until it couldn’t.

  One, the bars of light on her ceiling.

  Two, her legs wouldn’t stop shaking.

  This was bullshit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SAMUEL

  Sage Widow had changed.

  As he entered the dimly lit interior of the shop he tried to remember the last time he’d been in. Vaguely he remembered shelves crammed with tins and boxes of tea, an aisle of coffee beans in glass jars, but now…

  The aisles were narrow and crooked, and signs hung on chains from the ceiling, full of scribbled cursive that said things like Potions A-Z and Spellcraft Ingredients.

  Sam gaped around for a moment before snapping his mouth shut. Apparently Margery had redecorated slightly since her expulsion from the church.

  Honestly, it didn’t bother him. He could appreciate the irony.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shuffled past the first few aisles. He wondered briefly—and blasphemously—if there was a potion he could make, some kind of magic spell, to ease the horrible guilt.

  He hadn’t slept much last night. Every time he closed his eyes Dayna’s pale, freckled face appeared, her accusing look eating at his insides.

  He took a breath and tried to shake the thoughts off, moving deeper into the store.

  For the most part it was empty, though in the sec
ond-to-last aisle he nearly ran into a tall, skinny woman. Sam staggered to a halt, and then recovered himself quickly. “Oh, Mrs. O’Neal, hi.”

  The older woman paled and then abruptly shoved the bundle of herbs she’d been holding back onto the shelf. She gave him a strained smile and backed away. “I…I thought I’d come in for some tea—” She darted a look over her shoulder, still moving backward. “They don’t have what I want. Uh, I’ll see you later, Sam.” She disappeared around the corner before Sam could say anything.

  Sam stayed where he was for a moment, startled. What had that been about?

  “Not many churchgoers caught dead here,” a voice said behind him, “and now I get two in one day?”

  He whirled around and then relaxed. Margery was leaning against the shelf at the end of the aisle, grinning at him. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Samuel?”

  “I had a question I was hoping you could answer.”

  “Always happy to help out a friend.” She gave him a wide smile, which made him feel a little guilty. He wouldn’t have described her as a friend, exactly, not after his mother and everyone at church had basically abandoned her.

  She seemed to interpret his hesitation as some kind of need for privacy, because she beckoned him into the back room. “Come on, I’ve got a nice little armchair set up back here for breaks and such.”

  They passed through the shop and by the front desk, and Sam tried to ignore the fact that the stand on the desk had a large selection of silver pentacles displayed on chains.

  The back was stacked with boxes and crates, and there was a table in one corner piled high with jars of herbs. This was where Margery directed him, and Sam settled into one of the overstuffed green armchairs beside it.

  “Tea?”

  “Uh, no thank you. I shouldn’t actually be too long. I just had a question about something…um.” He winced. There was really no good way of asking this.

  He wasn’t proud of this line of questioning, but so far it was his only potential lead, as far-fetched as it was. Besides, he kept telling himself that even though he knew magic wasn’t real, the Butcher might think it was. The symbol on the barn wall, if that’s what it was, still might be a clue.

  Margery raised her brows. “And what are we getting into, Samuel? Research for something, maybe? A new project?”

  Margery knew about his true-crime fascination. She’d happened upon him reading one of his books in the coffee shop once and asked him about it. Sam had found she listened without judging, and he’d ended up telling her more than he’d meant to about his strange hobby.

  He sighed. “You probably already guessed, but yeah, I’m looking into the Butcher. This is a long shot, but I thought you might be able to tell me what this was.” He took his phone out and pulled the picture up.

  Margery squinted down at it, frowning. He was watching her face as she stared at the picture, and so he was able to see a spark of recognition, followed by careful blankness as she turned back to him.

  “What’s this a picture of? What does it have to do with the Butcher?”

  Sam gave her a long look. She’d definitely had some kind of reaction to the mark. “It’s a shot of the side of a barn from ten years ago on the Isle of Man…” He trailed off, and then when Margery continued to stare at him, decided to take the plunge. “…where they think the Butcher tried and failed to kill a sixth victim.”

  Margery blew out a breath and glanced down at the phone again. Sam’s gut began to churn. She knew something.

  “What? What is it?”

  “It’s a mark that means banishing,” she finally said. “It’s magic.”

  There was silence for a moment as Sam tried to digest this. Again, he told himself that he didn’t believe in magic, but other people did. And those people might be involved in this case. “You’re sure?” he said. “It just looks like a bunch of scribbles to me.” His stomach was churning again, only this time it was excitement. He might have made a break in a decade-old case. It seemed impossible. “That means the Butcher thinks he’s doing magic.”

  Margery shook her head. “Not him,” she said. “Whoever he is, this isn’t his work. Not unless he’s a very good forger. This is the work of a witch.”

  Sam frowned. “How can you tell?”

  “Because I recognize it.” Again, her expression was guarded.

  “Does the witch…” He cleared his throat, feeling strange about calling someone that. “Does she have a scar on her face, or maybe her neck or shoulder? It would be a big scar, something that almost killed her.”

  Margery thrust the phone back into his hands and, to his dismay, began to walk back toward the front of her store, toward the door.

  “I think you should leave, Samuel. You’re asking after things you don’t understand.”

  “No, please.” Sam hurried after her. “Margery, come on. I’ve been studying the Butcher for years now. All of this fascinates me.”

  “I don’t mean the murders”—Margery paused by the door—“I mean magic. There are more things in heaven and earth, Samuel, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” She looked at him a second time, more closely, and then sighed. “You’re not going to let this alone, are you?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not. Honestly, I don’t think I can.”

  “Her name is Harriet King,” Margery said reluctantly. “It’s her magic, I can tell just as well as if she’d signed her name. The way she draws the pentacle…And yes, she has a scar.” She tapped the side of her neck. “A thick one, this side of her throat.”

  Sam’s heart was beating hard in his ears now, so loudly he could hardly hear himself as he said, “How do you know all this? How do you know her?”

  “She belonged to a local coven once, a long time ago.” Margery handed the phone back to him, and he took it, just barely registering that she’d said “a local coven,” meaning there were more witches in town. It seemed unbelievable, but that was hardly his main focus right now.

  “Where is she right now? Where can I find her?”

  Margery’s dark brows furrowed. “You go looking for Harriet King, you go looking for trouble, Samuel.”

  “You don’t get it.” Sam held out both hands. “She’s in danger. I need to find her.”

  Margery sighed. “I’d be more worried about your serial killer, boy.” When Sam stared at her, she shook her head.

  “Fine. If you want to find King, ask your ex-girlfriend. The last time they were in, she was with them all.”

  Sam’s mouth dropped open as a wave of shock hit him, freezing him to the spot. Margery frowned at him and started to say, “Samuel—” but he was already moving, smashing the door open with one hand, his phone in the other. He dialed Dayna’s number, getting her voice mail.

  He hit the road running, still calling, still getting nothing, her voice echoing in his ears: I’m not here right now…. leave a message. Not here right now. Not here right now.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  DAYNA

  Dayna spent the morning locked away in her bedroom, listening to her father’s heavy footfalls below. He clearly wanted to talk to her, otherwise he wouldn’t spend so much time hanging around the kitchen.

  She stayed where she was, sitting cross-legged in the center of her bed, hoping to wait him out. During the summer the reverend held court over the church youth program, and he was usually out of the house by early morning.

  No such luck. When she crept down the stairs he was standing at the bottom, keys in his hand, shrugging into his jacket. “Obviously I wasn’t clear enough, because you’ve been out repeatedly since we talked. As I said, you’re grounded. I don’t want you out of the house.”

  “I’m going to shower.” She skirted around him at the bottom of the stairs and spotted Fiona through the kitchen doorway. In spite of the summer sun pouring through the windows, the woman was wearing a high-necked yellow sweater and a skirt that went all the way down to her ankles. She was staring at the wa
llpaper, her face slack, ignoring the cup of coffee in front of her. A second later Fiona turned toward her, and Dayna skidded to a halt, horror blooming in her chest.

  Fiona’s face was as pale and thin as ever, but what drew Dayna’s attention was the mottled purple bruise around her left eye.

  Her father was still in the hallway; Dayna could hear him stomping back and forth.

  Had he done this?

  The bruises on Fiona’s arms, and now this. Dayna stared at her for a full moment, her mouth sour, then edged into the kitchen and smiled cautiously at her mother. “Good morning.”

  Fiona smiled wanly. Then the mug of coffee in front of her seemed to catch her eye, and she wrapped her hands around it. “Morning. Are you going somewhere?”

  “Just to shower. Um, your eye looks painful. What happened?”

  Fiona frowned, touching the corner of her eye with a fingertip. She winced. “I…don’t know. I don’t remember.” Her eyes were starting to lose their focus again, and Dayna cleared her throat, alarmed. She had to get Fiona to talk to her, but she seemed to be fading in and out.

  “Fiona, are you sure you don’t know who it was—” She blinked as Fiona stood up abruptly. Her chair tipped over and crashed to the floor, and her eyes were wide and dark in her pale face.

  “I don’t remember. I don’t remember who they are.”

  “Okay.” Dayna held up a hand, alarmed. “Okay, that’s fine.”

  “Where are you going? Are you going to see them?”

  Dayna took a step backward. “What? Who?”

  Fiona lunged, catching Dayna’s sleeve in a tight grip, tugging her forward. “Tell me, please, you have to tell me who you’re seeing. Where are the rest of them? I can’t remember who they are.”

  Dayna’s chest was tight with alarm, but she tried to stay very still, as if the woman were a wild animal she might scare off. She forced herself to keep her voice low and calm. “Fiona, I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m staying right here, with you.”