Witches of Ash and Ruin

by E. Latimer

  She regretted not raiding the cupboards for pain meds before she left, for Dayna’s arm, but also because her head was pounding. They’d been at the library for hours now, and hadn’t made much progress.

  Not that she was doing particularly well at concentrating. She kept glancing over at Dayna, at her profile, the fine lines of her features. At her eyelashes, which were ridiculously long, flickering slightly as she read, the freckles that dotted her cheeks. She could still remember the taste of Dayna’s mouth. The way she felt pressed against her, the smell of her hair.

  Shit. Meiner forced her attention back to the book in her lap.

  A second later Dayna sighed. “We’ve got nothing. A couple symbols we don’t know, one that might mean judge, and vague guesses who might be next.” She trailed off.

  “I swear it sounds like some kind of dark ritual, the way he’s taking body parts.” Reagan scowled at the laptop. She had the same article up and was scanning it over again. “But there’s no hint at what it might be.”

  “This blog post talks about Carman making deals with humans and then screwing them over. Typical shady sorceress stuff,” Cora said. “Tricky bitch. Still nothing helpful, though this article mentions her lover was banished, too. Apparently she was knocking boots with Angus Og, god of love. A good lay, I imagine.” She wiggled her brows, and Meiner rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

  It occurred to her suddenly that she hadn’t actually wanted to murder Cora for most of the morning. It reminded her of when Cora had first moved in, when they’d been allies, not enemies, bonded by mutual hatred and angst. And then the training had started, and they’d become more than just hurt, angry teens—they’d been witchlings.

  Until Gran had begun to lose herself, and the ever-present anger suddenly no longer had a clear direction. Their allyship had slowly twisted after that, into something new. Something ugly.

  How long had it been since they’d been on their own, away from Gran for any extended period of time?

  She hated to admit it, even to herself, but it was possible the anger she directed at Cora was…well, misdirected. The thought sent a flash of irritation through her. Had Gran known that was going to happen? Or worse, had she planned it that way?

  Only the rustle of pages filled the silence now, and Meiner forced herself to push these thoughts away.

  Another witch would be next, a fourth victim. The judge, the poet, and Margery…

  Meiner sat up straighter on the bench. “What was it Margery said again? Something about witches and saints?”

  Dayna grimaced, but Reagan answered for them. “‘First we were gods…gods, and then saints, and then witches.’”

  “Gods and saints.” Meiner snapped her book closed. It felt like there were loose bits of a puzzle rattling around in her brain. All the pieces were there; they just had to figure out how they fit. “Hold on, who are the gods that put Carman away again?”

  “The first is Aoi Mac Ollamain.” Reagan leaned back against the window seat, then winced and rubbed her lower back. “God of poetry. None of us are pledged to him, so I don’t know much about him.”

  “I’ll look him up.” Dayna was already typing the name into a search. “Whoa, check him out.” She held up the phone, showing them the full-color illustration of a man with a mop of silver curls and a thick beard. He wore a golden crown at his brow and held a silver goblet.

  “Isn’t he fancy looking?” Cora raised a brow, and then frowned suddenly. “The second witch who died…wasn’t she a poet? At least that’s what the news said.”

  They could hear the rustle and hush of the library around them. Then Reagan said slowly, “And the symbol that means judge…”

  “Holy shit.” Meiner’s stomach was churning now, and her voice was low and tense with excitement. She reached out and took her phone back, fingers brushing Dayna’s.

  Goose bumps ran down both her arms, though Meiner wasn’t sure if it was the excitement of their discovery or the physical contact. She’d been distracted by the thought of kissing Dayna all morning. Even now, in the face of this discovery, it was hard to drag her mind away.

  “The judge that was killed…” Reagan breathed. “A judge and a poet.”

  “‘First we were gods’…Margery somehow knew, she was trying to tell you. They’re killing the gods that locked Carman away.” Meiner finally said it. “Or…at least witches that represent those gods.” She frowned suddenly. “But why Margery? What’s her connection?”

  There was silence for a moment as they pored over the list of gods once again, and then Meiner cleared her throat.

  “Your Margery didn’t happen to be a writer, did she?”

  Dayna’s brows shot up. “Oh my god, yes. She used to write a column for the newspaper. It was a big thing a couple of years ago; she got kicked out of the church.”

  Meiner pointed to a line of text. “It says here that Crichinbel was a satirist. If she thought she was writing some kind of satirical commentary…”

  There was a beat of silence, and then Reagan said softly, “What did Cernunnos say to you in the vision again? Each death is unlocking something?”

  Dayna frowned, brows creased. “Uh, the death of your saints is unlocking her cell, something like that.”

  “Her cell,” Cora said. “Her cell. She was talking about Carman.”

  “Holy shit.” Meiner sat up straight, pressing a hand to her mouth. “They think they’re resurrecting her.”

  Dayna was clutching the bite on her shoulder. Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide and distant.

  “I don’t think they think they’re doing it”—her voice was barely a whisper—“I think they actually are.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  DUBH

  Tongue and eye, hand and foot. Blood and bone, ash and soot.

  Dubh didn’t realize he was muttering it out loud until Olc’s shoe crashed into the wall near his head.

  “Bloody Christ, Dubh. Shut the fuck up.” Olc leaned back on the mattress, tucking his hands behind his head. “We’ve got the book with all the instructions, so you can quit reciting that stupid rhyme.”

  Calma paused in the middle of tracing a warding sigil on the opposite wall. He’d already marked most of the room with charcoal, leaving swirling lines of smudgy black all across the walls. The shoe missile had smeared a line. He brushed his long hair back from his face and scowled over at Olc. “Do you mind? If we’re going to stay here, we have to at least ward the damn place.” He shot a sideways look at Dubh, who ignored him.

  Shutting the cooler lid with a snap, Dubh pushed it to the end of the second bed.

  This was the first place they’d stayed that wasn’t a dump. It was a good location, small and out of the way. Hard to find if you didn’t know where you were looking…As far as he was concerned, they were here until the whole thing was over.

  Which wasn’t long now.

  Leaning over Calma, he took one of the charcoal sticks off the dresser and settled back on the bed, laying the book out flat.

  Calma shot him an annoyed look but said nothing, returning to his scribbles. Olc gave a derisive laugh and threw one of the decorative pillows across the room. It bounced off Dubh’s shoulder. “What are you drawing over there, Picasso?”

  Dubh merely glowered at him and returned to the page. His fingers shook slightly, excitement curling in his stomach as he traced the figures in dark smudges on the page. The deepset eyes, the lines around their mouths. The shape of a face, and the slope of a neck, an arm, a wrist.

  As the women slowly came to life on the page, the fire in his chest fanned to life.

  He darted another look at the window. Calma insisted on keeping the floral curtains closed, but judging by the brightness of the light shining through the crack, it had to be almost noon.

  Not long now.

  Soon they would have all of the spell’s ingredients. If it all went well tonight, they would have the rest.

  Just a few more hours of waiting, and they would wak
e her.

  Carman would rise.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  DAYNA

  “If it’s a resurrection spell they’re doing, they’ll need a powerful lunar event.” The picture of Bronagh wobbled slightly on Meiner’s phone before disappearing entirely. “How do you work this damn thing, Faye?”

  Cora grimaced around at the half-empty library. “Oh my god, turn her down, Meiner.”

  Meiner jammed her thumb on the volume button, just as Faye shouted in exasperation from the other end, “For Christ’s sake, you’ve got your thumb on the camera, Grandmother. Give it here!”

  There was a brief and chaotic shuffling, and the screen pivoted wildly, flashing the ceiling, then Faye’s scowling face next to Bronagh.

  “That’s better. All right, listen, they’re running out of time with reporters swarming the town and the gardai investigating. I’ll wager they use the full moon eclipse tonight. If they’re doing a spell of this magnitude, that’s what they’ll be using.”

  Tonight. Dayna gripped the books she was holding to her chest, taking a deep, shaky breath. “That doesn’t give us enough time. We’re not ready to fight this.”

  “Aye, listen, just get back here, lunch is almost ready.” Bronagh leaned forward, peering more closely at the screen. “Oh, is that Celtic Myths and Legends? Bring it with you.”

  “Grandmother, don’t touch—”

  The chat winked out, cutting off Faye’s annoyed voice, and Cora snorted. “Good god, I need a smoke. Tell me when we’re leaving.” She stomped out, and Reagan sighed.

  “I’m gonna go check out the books. Meet you back at the car.” Reagan disappeared around the corner, and Meiner turned back to Dayna.

  “I guess we should put some of these back— Hey, are you okay?”

  “We’re not ready for tonight, but we’ve got to stop them.” The image of Margery’s pale face swam before Dayna’s eyes suddenly, and she blinked frantically, gaze blurred by tears. “We can’t let anyone else die.”

  “We won’t.” Meiner stepped forward. Catching her arm, she tugged the books out of Dayna’s grip. “Hey, it’s going to be okay.”

  This was twice she’d lost her composure in front of Meiner now. And this time in public. She couldn’t break down in the library.

  “Hey, look at me.”

  Dayna blinked, startled, as Meiner slid a finger under her chin, tipping her face back, forcing her to meet her gaze. Meiner’s face wasn’t full of pity, as she’d feared. Instead her expression was glittering and hard. It sent a strange, delicious shiver through her.

  “We’ll stop them, and we’ll make them pay.”

  For the second time that day she found herself desperately wanting to kiss Meiner King, but this time she waited for one second, two, and it was Meiner who dipped her head down to press her lips against hers, whose fingers tangled in her hair and tugged at the collar of her shirt, pulling her close for one electric moment.

  Then there was a shuffle from somewhere behind them, and low voices as people passed by the shelves, and they broke away from each other. This time Dayna knew her face was definitely glowing.

  Meiner cleared her throat. “I guess we should get back to the house. I don’t want to leave Gran with the others for too long. I don’t trust her and Bronagh not to scrap.”

  Dayna paused. “Oh my god, I just remembered. Before…before we found Margery—” Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to continue. “Sam called me. He thinks your grandmother was the Butcher’s last victim. The one who got away.”

  “What?” Meiner’s brows creased. “How does he figure that?”

  “When did your gran get that scar on her neck?”

  Meiner frowned. “I-I don’t remember, she’s just always had it. It’s not the kind of thing I’d ask her about.”

  “We should ask her—”

  Coming around the corner of the bookshelf, Dayna pulled up short.

  Fiona Walsh was standing between the romance and mythology bookshelves. She was dressed in a stuffy floral-patterned dress that went all the way from her chin to her feet, and she clutched her Bible to her chest, eyes wide.

  Shit. Dayna started to turn away, alarmed. This couldn’t happen; the reverend couldn’t be here. Her coven and her home life were never supposed to meet. Each was too complicated, too volatile. An explosion was inevitable.

  “Dayna,” Fiona called out. “What are you doing here?”

  Her heart sank, and she turned slowly. “Where’s Dad?”

  Fiona ignored the question, reaching out to grip Dayna’s arm. “Your father wouldn’t tell me where you were this morning. You have to come back with us. Stay home.”

  “Ouch, Fiona, let go.” Dayna tried to tug her arm out of the woman’s pincer-like grip and was alarmed when Fiona only grabbed her other arm and held on.

  “No, Dayna—that killer is out there. Come back with us. You need to come home.”

  By now her voice had risen enough that other people in the library seemed to have noticed. There was what looked like a book club at the table, all staring at them, wide-eyed.

  “Hey, get the hell off her.” Meiner’s voice was curt, and she took a step forward and started reaching for Fiona’s arm.

  “Get away.” Fiona’s voice echoed off the nearby shelves, and Dayna gasped as the woman suddenly threw her body back, still clutching both arms tightly. Dayna found herself being dragged away from Meiner, toward the exit. She tried to dig her heels into the carpet. Fiona was painfully skinny, but it was shocking how strong she was.

  Fiona managed to drag her past two full bookshelves before there was the sudden loud thumping of footsteps, and Meiner appeared in front of them.

  “Let her go.”

  In that moment while they were both frozen, Dayna looked down at Fiona’s hands on her arm. She’d been clawing at her, trying to get her to release her grip, and had pushed up one of the woman’s sleeves. “What is that?” At first glance she saw only a series of scratches, red and inflamed, but the pattern of scratches drew her gaze back.

  There was something familiar about it, the shaky lines on the outside forming a circle, and the crisscrossed lines within. A wave of sick horror rolled over her.

  It was familiar because she’d seen that mark over and over. At the stone circle at the first murder scene, carved into the trees behind Sage Widow, on the news constantly.

  “That mark—”

  Fiona released her abruptly and slammed Dayna back into the bookshelf, where she struck her shoulder just above the bite on her arm. She hissed at the pain and clutched the wound, blinking around at the bookshelves through tear-blurred eyes.

  Fiona’s eyes were impossibly wide and black. Almost all pupil. She launched herself forward, knocking Meiner out of the way, grabbing at Dayna’s shirt, growling inches away from her face.

  “I know it’s you.”

  Dayna jerked back, and the book under Fiona’s arm crashed to the ground at their feet. Papers scattered across the carpet. As Fiona bent to snatch at them frantically, Dayna reached out and grabbed the nearest one, shock rooting her to the spot. Red ink spiraled down into the middle of the page, the same word repeated over and over until it was sucked into the center.

  Dayna, Dayna, Dayna…Her name. Just her name, a thousand times over.

  Fiona made a strangled sound of protest, darting forward to grab it out of her hands. A second later she froze as a deep voice from the end of the bookshelves cried out, “Fiona, don’t!”

  The reverend was suddenly there, in his thick black jacket and white collar. He stood between two bookshelves at the end of the aisle, and Dayna wondered exactly how long he’d been there. How much he’d seen.

  He looked furious. “Fiona! Don’t touch her. Go sit in the car immediately.” His gaze flicked from her to Dayna, and the anger drained out of his face. For a second he just looked exhausted, and then his expression hardened again, became stern. “Stay there while I get Fiona to the car. I need to speak with you pr
ivately.”

  Dayna only nodded, too shocked to protest. She folded her arms over her chest to stop her hands from shaking, watching as the reverend escorted Fiona outside.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  DAYNA

  They waited for a few minutes, Meiner staying close to her. Dayna kept glancing at the door, stomach twisting into knots.

  Meiner kept her voice low. “Are you okay? Do you want me to stay?” Dayna swallowed and shook her head, watching as the reverend reentered through the glass doors and headed toward them.

  “I’ll meet you outside, okay?”

  Meiner only nodded silently and turned for the door, giving the reverend a cool look as she passed him.

  In the beat or two of silence that followed, her father slipped his hands into his pockets and Dayna took several deep, shaky breaths, trying to slow her racing heart. She kept trying to make sense of what she’d seen just now: the symbol carved into her mother’s arm, the red spiral of her name snaking into the center of the page….

  What the hell was going on?

  The reverend’s face was grim and white. “You should have told me you found that woman’s body. I…I would have been there for you. I had to hear it from Samuel’s father.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.” Dayna’s frustration surged. “I want to talk about Fiona. She just attacked me. You saw it.”

  For a long moment the reverend just stared at her, and then he sighed heavily. “I was hoping to avoid all of this, but…I think I have to tell you something about your mother, and I want you to listen without interrupting.”

  Startled, she nodded, unease stirring her stomach.

  “After you were born, your mother was never the same.” The reverend paused, brows furrowed. Then he squared his shoulders, as if he were steeling himself. “They called it postpartum psychosis, but…it never seemed to go away. For years, I tried everything, pills, doctors, psychologists. The mental health ward in the best hospitals. Sometimes she seemed to do better, but she’d always relapse, usually worse than before. The doctors…they seemed to think she wasn’t a normal case.” He frowned down at the bookshelves. “And at some point, when you were about four or five, her psychosis switched to a narrower focus…” He hesitated, eyes flicking up to Dayna’s face. “You.”