by E. Latimer
“Fiona.”
Her father’s voice made them both start. Fiona released her grip on Dayna’s sleeve, her expression confused. “I…Are we going to the church now, Nathaniel?”
“Yes.” The reverend stopped beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. It was not an affectionate gesture, but rather a way of steering her toward the hall. Fiona’s posture was stiff, and she was clutching her arms again as they started for the door.
“Your mother is right, Dayna. Don’t forget you’re staying in today. You’re still grounded, and when I get back we’re going to talk. We all need to start attending church again. As a family.” The reverend looked back, but Dayna noticed he didn’t make eye contact, staring somewhere over her left shoulder instead. “We’ll see you when we get
home.”
She watched them go, stunned.
Her father was stern, it was true. And he’d maybe gripped her arm a little too tightly as a child, or pulled her after him a little too firmly when crossing the street, but…he wasn’t physically abusive, was he? Could he have given Fiona that bruise?
And he kept insisting Fiona was fine now, but that outburst had been…strange. He could try to play it off as Fiona asking her not to go meet her friends, to stay home, but that didn’t seem likely. The woman had looked panicked.
If she’d thought the reverend had been hiding something before, she was certain of it now.
After showering, Dayna retreated up the stairs to her room, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.
She collapsed onto the bed with a groan, her wet hair soaking into her pillow. Now she had a choice to make: either she snuck out and risked pissing off the reverend even more, or she called Reagan and told her she’d have to lie low for a while.
Still lying down, she fished in her open bag for her phone. Her fingers brushed over lip gloss, hair ties, her wallet…still no phone. She sat up so quickly her head spun, suddenly sure her father had come back in and taken it while she was in the shower.
He’d done it once before when she was grounded, and that had been another of their bigger fights. She growled under her breath, panic blooming in her chest. If he’d stolen her phone, she was going to make their last fight feel like a trip to the spa.
Dayna turned over her bag, dumping it on the bed in an explosion of tampons, gum wrappers, and receipts.
She sat back a second later, feeling foolish.
There was her phone, sitting on the very top of the pile, which meant it had been buried underneath all the crap in her bag. She snatched it up, relief making her slump back onto her pillow. Dayna checked her phone briefly, grimacing at several missed calls from Samuel, before she sat up again and began to sort through the garbage.
She really should try to be less of a total slob.
Dayna was placing the receipts in a pile in the center of the bed, when the block letters on one caught her eye and she stopped short, smoothing it out on her knee. Her breath caught.
Widow Inc.
This was it, what they’d been talking about at the station. Widow Incorporated.
The receipt was from the tea she’d got Bronagh from Sage Widow. She’d never really looked that closely at the receipts before, but the actual company name was Widow Incorporated. That’s why there hadn’t been any results when she googled it—Margery didn’t have a store website.
This meant the killer had bought something at Sage Widow.
She snatched up her phone, heart beating wildly. She had to call Reagan.
CHAPTER FORTY
DAYNA
Five minutes later, Reagan parked at the end of the driveway. When Dayna slid into the passenger seat, Reagan tapped the dusty dashboard once, lightly, with the tip of her finger, mumbling something under her breath. The minivan coughed to life, filled with the sound of indie rock music and the smell of gasoline, sending up puffs of exhaust. Reagan was wearing a white NASA T-shirt and a pair of cutoffs today. Her legs were long and toned against the ripped vinyl seat, and her gray running shoes were covered in mud.
“You’re getting your van all dirty,” Dayna pointed out.
“And good morning to you, too, sunshine.” Reagan snorted. “I’ve just come straight from practice. Give me a break.”
Dayna eyed her, amused. “Does Yemi know how you start the van now?”
“What she doesn’t know…” Reagan raised an eyebrow. “Besides, this old bucket of bolts needs a little magical assistance, or it takes a full ten minutes to start. I got your text and drove like the wind.” She waved her phone as Dayna buckled in. “Well, at least as much like the wind as this van goes. It was more like a tiny, very slow storm with lots of rattling and creaking.” She peered at Dayna’s face before shifting into reverse. “How far? You look pale. Is it just the Sage Widow thing, or is there more going on?”
“You could say that.” Dayna took a deep breath and told her about her mother’s weird behavior that morning, and her father’s reaction, which had been equally strange. After a moment she told her about Samuel, too. It felt strange to switch mindsets so drastically, from murders and witchcraft to her messed-up but thoroughly unmagical life.
Reagan whistled, a low, impressed sound. “Damn, woman. You have a lot going on.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Dayna grumbled, and smoothed out the receipt she’d been crumpling in her fist. “Anyway, let’s ask Margery about this.”
Reagan wrinkled her nose. “What exactly are we going to ask her? Hey, Margery, served any serial killers lately?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we can ask her about weird customers, anyone that seemed off. You know, like had a weird energy. She is a witch, right? Maybe she picked up on some of that.”
Reagan quirked an eyebrow. “I’m not one to look down on anyone, but she’s a hedge witch at best. I’m not sure she’d be able to tell.” She pulled into the nearest parking spot and shut the van off.
When she twisted in her seat to look at Dayna, her face was serious again. “You know you can crash with us, don’t you? For as long as you need. Ma and I are worried. I know she doesn’t want to pressure you, but she really wishes you’d come stay until this stuff with Fiona gets sorted.”
“I know.” Dayna followed her across the lot, mind still spinning, ignoring her phone vibrating in her pocket. She didn’t want to speak to Sam, no matter how persistent he was being.
Reagan was right; she was already at the coven house every available opportunity, and she crashed in their spare bedroom all the time. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine living there. She’d fantasized about that very thing multiple times. Growing up, she used to pretend Yemi had adopted her, that Reagan was legally her sister, and that she would never have to go back to the reverend. It had been a comforting idea, but now…maybe it needed to be her new reality.
She didn’t realize how tense she’d been until she relaxed slightly and felt the muscles in her shoulder scream in protest. Her dog bite was throbbing again.
“Thanks,” she said. “I might have to take you up on that, at least for a while.” She pressed her lips together, thinking hard as they entered Sage Widow, the bell over the door jangling. The mere threat of moving out might be enough to make her father realize things had gone too far. Maybe it would force him to get help for his wife.
They wandered down the first aisle, Reagan brushing her fingers over boxes and packages of dried herbs.
As she followed her down to the end of the aisle, Dayna found herself momentarily distracted. There was someone stalking across the porch outside Sage Widow; she could see him through the window, a cigarette trailing smoke from between his fingers. He was tall and thin, with startling blue eyes and curly hair that flopped in his face. It was the cigarette that stood out to her; this wasn’t a place you were allowed to smoke, and he was quite brazen about it. But as he passed the window, it was the wound on his cheek that drew her eye. Fresh and jagged and sloppily stitched together with black thread. He turned his head and caught her look
ing, his mouth turning up into a wolfish smile.
Did she know him from somewhere?
She passed a wide display of beeswax candles, and when she came back into view of the window, it was empty. Dayna blinked.
When they got to the front there was no one at the desk, and Reagan hit the top of the silver bell on the counter, which let out a cheery ding, and stepped back.
“So, you and Meiner…?” Reagan trailed off, waggling her brows, and Dayna snorted.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Come on. You two have been hate-flirting all week. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the way you described her when you first met her. That she’s super tall and weirdly intense.” Reagan’s grin was wicked. “I know what that means. You want to see how intense she’d be in bed.”
“Ew, Reagan, don’t be gross.” Dayna slapped her friend’s arm, and Reagan shrieked with laughter.
“You and Meiner sitting in a tree…”
Dayna’s expression must have been somewhere between despair and amusement, because Reagan laughed again. “You know I’m giving you a hard time. But am I wrong? Look me in the eye and tell me she isn’t fit.”
Dayna bit her lip, hesitating, and now it was Reagan’s turn to roll her eyes.
“I called that one.”
Another moment went by, and Dayna began to shift from foot to foot. Her dog bite was still throbbing; in fact it seemed to be getting worse. “Should I ring the bell again?”
“Nah, just yell at her.” Reagan grinned and leaned over the desk. The door behind it, which led to the back rooms, was ajar. “Auntie, you have customers!”
“Nice.” Dayna paused, fishing in her bag. “Hold on, I’ll phone the store, see if she’s hiding in the back room.”
She pulled out her cell and then nearly dropped it when it vibrated in her hands. The call display said 27 missed calls.
Dayna’s brows shot up. This was excessive, even for Sam. Maybe it was something other than his desperate attempts to apologize. “I think something might be wrong with Sam.”
Reagan snorted, still leaning over the desk to try to peer into the back. “Understatement of the century.”
“No, I mean, he’s tried to call a million times—” She blinked down at the phone as it started to vibrate again. “He’s calling now.”
Reagan gave her a look, but Dayna answered anyway. “Sam? Is everything okay?”
There was a relieved sigh from the other end, and then Sam said quickly, “Where are you? Are you somewhere safe?”
Dayna frowned. “What? Of course I am. What’s the matter?” He sounded completely out of breath.
“It’s Harriet King,” he said, and Dayna’s mouth dropped open. He pressed on before she could say anything. “She was a victim in the last cycle. He’s trying to get to her, finish what he started. She’s not safe to be around, Dayna. You’re not with her now, are you?”
He sounded panicked at the very thought. “No,” she said hastily. “No, I’m just with Reagan. Sam, how did you know—”
“I need to meet with you. Like, right away.”
Dayna hesitated, glancing over at Reagan, who had made her way around the desk and was frowning down at something on the floor behind it. “Uh, sure, want to meet at the Coffee Bean? I’m right— Reagan! You can’t just go back there.”
Sam was still talking, asking her something, but Dayna wasn’t paying attention anymore. Reagan’s eyes were wide, and she had one hand pressed to her mouth.
“Oh shit.”
“What?” Dayna hurried around the side of the counter. Behind the desk were several piles of papers scattered on the back counter, and a garbage bin had been tipped over and its contents spread across the floor. Patches of blood were splattered across the rug where Margery usually stood.
“Nosebleed…maybe?” Reagan looked around, expression uneasy.
“Maybe,” Dayna said, but the sight of the blood made her mouth dry. She let her gaze drift across the pattern of splotches on the floor, drops of blood leading from the back of the desk to the crack in the door.
“Dayna? What is it? What’s going on? Are you at Reagan’s place? I can come over—”
“I’ll call you right back, okay?” Dayna hit the off button, cutting off Sam’s protests.
“We should check on her.” Reagan started for the door, and Dayna hurried to follow. The back was a spacious concrete room full to the rafters with cardboard boxes, and a wide wooden table with jars of herbs and twisted pillars of beeswax stacked across it. But no Margery.
“Should we call the gardai?”
“I don’t know yet, just keep your phone handy.” Reagan crept forward, footsteps light on the concrete floor.
“Hey, wait.” A bar of light falling across the back end of the room had caught her eye. The back door was open. “I bet she’s out for a smoke.”
“If she is,” Reagan said, and her voice was slightly uneven, “she needs a cloth, because she’s still dripping blood.”
She was right. When Dayna glanced down, she saw a scattering of coin-sized blood droplets leading to the back door. As she followed Reagan, she slid a hand into her pocket, pulling out her phone. A wave of cold panic spread through her.
The back door led to a porch that looked out on the woods, and when Dayna stepped outside she felt a surge of relief. There was an ashtray balanced on the railing, and Margery had propped her cigarette up on the side, where it was sending up gentle spirals of smoke. A red sweater hung on the post nearby.
“Margery?”
“What did she—” Reagan stopped. “Oh my god.”
She saw it a second later. At first glance it looked like a pile of black fabric at the bottom of the stairs, or a garbage bag maybe, if she looked quickly out the corner of one eye.
But it was Margery. She was lying on her back, left arm stretched out, as if she’d been reaching for someone. Her black dress flared out around her body.
“Oh my god.” Reagan’s hand was over her mouth, half muffling her words. “Oh my god, Margery.”
“Did she fall?” Dayna pushed past Reagan, her heart beating wildly against her rib cage. She hurried down the steps and then skidded to a stop at the bottom, seizing the railing as a scream tore from her throat. Close up she could see a series of bloody stains on the front of Margery’s dress, and more horrible still…
The woman’s eyes were nothing but two empty holes in her chalk-white face.
Dazed, she grasped the railing with shaking fingers. Reagan stayed where she was, still frozen. “Dayna, wha— You shouldn’t—”
“Margery?” It was stupid. There was no way the woman was alive. She moved closer, off the last step and onto the small patch of grass along the edge of the backwoods. “Reagan, call the gardai.”
“Oh Christ. Aye, I’m—I’m calling. You shouldn’t go down there. What if whoever did this is still here?”
The tightness in Dayna’s throat increased, and she felt a stab of cold panic as she turned back to Reagan. The bone necklace felt heavy against her chest. Would it protect her from a murderer? She searched her memory frantically for spells of protection, but the panic seemed to have wiped her mind clean. Her blood was suddenly thundering in her ears, and each breath burned in her chest.
Reagan had begun chanting under her breath—so mote it be, so mote it be, so mote it be—her voice trembling.
There was an awful, rattling gasp from behind them, and Dayna jumped. She turned, clutching the railing, pulse stuttering wildly.
Margery was blinking, slowly, very slowly. Dayna realized with a sense of dull horror that her eyelids were somehow still intact. She opened and shut them in a slow, horrible movement, her eyelids sagging inward each time. She let out another rattling breath, and Dayna scrambled forward. “Oh my god, she’s still alive.”
Margery’s face was porcelain pale, and when she opened her lips the inside of her mouth was stained red. “First we were gods,” she mumbled.
Dayna sank down besi
de her. Tears stung the backs of her eyes, and her voice trembled. “You’re okay. Help is coming.”
The woman’s eyelids flicked open again, and Dayna shuddered at the gory emptiness of the sockets. Incredibly, Margery’s lips twitched in a smile. “Gods and then saints”—she took a shuddering breath before continuing—“and then…witches, and now this…” Her hand flopped forward, and at first Dayna thought she was gesturing, but then Margery’s eyes fluttered shut and her chest sank and didn’t rise again.
Dayna’s breath seemed to stop. She clenched her fists around handfuls of grass. “Margery? Help is coming—” She faltered. “Oh god.”
“Is she…” Reagan’s voice cracked. “Is she gone?”
Dayna stood up, breathing hard. Something along the edge of the forest caught her eye, a blur of movement just beyond the tree line. She jerked, muffling a gasp with one fist. Maybe it was just a bird or a racoon, or…
The trees. There was something wrong with them.
Without thinking, she stepped closer.
Each tree along the edge of the forest had been vandalized—harsh, circular slashes etched into the bark. The same symbol over and over. Dayna’s hands flew to her mouth.
Behind her, Reagan was stammering into the phone. “We found her at the bottom of the stairs. Come fast. I think—I think she’s dead. No, she’s not moving. There’s blood.”
Dayna’s gaze flicked back to Margery, sprawled on the grass. Thick trails of blood had seeped out and left patches on her sweater.
Her stomach flipped, and she stumbled back a step, toward the stairs. If she was going to be sick, she shouldn’t do it here. The forest seemed to surge and warp, and Dayna clutched the railing, gasping for breath. She couldn’t pass out; they had to get somewhere safe. Someone was out there. Someone who’d carved the same symbol into the trees with a kind of obsessive precision. Someone who’d stabbed Margery repeatedly.
“I’m staying on the phone. Aye, we’re on the stairs at the back. Dayna, come on, she says to stay on the stairs.”
