Darknight (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 2)

by Christine Pope

  “Yeah, maybe it’s because she is the seer, or because her mother was Navajo, but she never seemed to really be that friendly with anyone,” Mason added.

  “Really?” I asked. That is, I’d noticed that Marie appeared to be far more obviously Native American than anyone else in the family, whose Navajo blood was many generations back, but I couldn’t quite figure out how that had worked. “Isn’t that sort of unusual? I mean, I just figured that the local Navajo didn’t have that great an opinion of the Wilcoxes — no offense,” I added quickly, as I saw the two girls exchange a glance.

  “Oh, no worries,” Mason said. “That’s ancient history. And yeah, it did seem a little strange to us, but who knows what happened with Marie’s parents. Her father was my grandfather’s oldest brother, but he died before I was born. And her mother went back to live on the tribal lands after Cousin Marie graduated from high school, so I don’t think any of us ever even met her.”

  “But Marie stayed?”

  “Yeah,” Carla replied, swirling the foam on the top of her cafe latte.

  “And she never got married or anything?”

  “Not that we know of. I heard somewhere that she was engaged once, but it didn’t work out.”

  “They broke up?”

  “No,” Mason said slowly, drawing out the syllable as if she were racking her brain at the same time, trying to recall the particulars. “I think he just…disappeared or something. Like, here one day and gone the next. Or at least that’s what I overheard at a family party once. I forget who was telling the story. Maybe your mom, Carla?”

  “Makes sense,” Carla remarked after sipping her latte. “My mom loves to gossip about everyone.”

  Like mother, like daughter, I thought, suppressing a grin. I wasn’t sure how much use any of this information was going to be to me, but gaining some extra knowledge never hurt. At the very least, I now knew that Marie’s hostility wasn’t necessarily directed at me, but more just a part of her personality.

  As the three of us finished up and made our goodbyes, however, I couldn’t help wondering about that long-ago fiancé of hers. What really had happened to him?

  I knew better than to ask Connor, though. He was so embroiled in his painting that he probably wouldn’t much appreciate me dredging up ancient family history. Which was fine. Our future together was far more important than whatever had happened to Marie before I was even born.

  * * *

  A few days later we were sitting in the living room, watching the morning news as we ate toast and eggs and sipped coffee. One good thing about Connor’s painting mania — he didn’t tend to get started until after nine in the morning at the earliest, so at least we could have a leisurely start to our day. We didn’t always turn on the news, but he was thinking about doing some plein air painting soon and wanted to catch the weather report. Apparently the Wilcoxes didn’t have anyone with true weather sensitivity, something the McAllisters definitely had up on them. On the other hand, we didn’t have a healer, nor a true seer, so the balance sheet still wasn’t all that even.

  All of the Arizona news came out of Phoenix, which had always made the weather reports pretty much useless to me back home in Jerome. Flagstaff, however, was a big enough city that it did actually get a mention from the Phoenix newscasters, although in general it seemed as if they tended to ignore what was going on in the northern half of the state.

  Not today, however. I’d just settled back on the couch with a fresh cup of coffee when the news returned after a commercial break. The female newscaster fixed her version of an appropriately concerned expression on her face and said, “Authorities have reported discovering the body of a female Northern Pines University student early this morning. Details are still sketchy, but the local police have informed us that there doesn’t appear to be any evidence of foul play and that the young woman appears to have been the victim of an animal attack, although such attacks are very rare. The victim’s name is being withheld pending notification of the family, and the police and local wildlife officials are saying this is most likely an isolated occurrence. However, until the animal involved can be identified, they urge residents near the university to be on their guard. In other news — ”

  I picked up the remote and hit the “mute” button. “An animal attack? Is that common around here?”

  Connor frowned. “Did you miss the part where they said these kinds of attacks are rare?”

  “No, but — ”

  “Probably a bear. It doesn’t happen very often, but this time of year I’ve heard they can be pretty hungry and cranky. We’ll probably never know what happened, since it sounds as if the girl was alone when she was attacked, but it’s not the sort of thing you need to worry about.” He paused, watching me closely, and his expression softened. “It’s awful, I know, but I’ve seen a few bears while I was out hiking, and they really don’t tend to be that aggressive.”

  “Okay,” I said, but I wasn’t sure if I meant it. Something was pricking at the back of my mind, telling me this didn’t feel right at all. In general my instincts were pretty good, although I didn’t know if that was some kind of witchy sixth sense or what Sydney liked to refer to as “her gut.” In the end, it probably didn’t matter all that much.

  “Can you turn the sound back on? The weather report is about to start.”

  “Sure.” I picked up the remote and unmuted the TV, then listened with half an ear as the weatherman talked about building high pressure and an extended dry spell, with wind warnings in effect for the next twenty-four hours. Not that unusual; we often got strong winds in northern Arizona at the shift of the seasons. The equinox was only two weeks away.

  If it really had been a bear attack, I wasn’t all that thrilled about Connor going out and painting in the middle of nowhere armed with only an easel and a brush. As it turned out, though, his destination was Oak Creek Canyon, not anywhere near Flagstaff. That made me a little more relaxed about the situation, especially after he said he wanted me to come along so we could hike around West Fork, get lunch at the Indian Gardens trading post. It sounded like a fun outing.

  “I can’t guarantee it’ll be bear-free,” Connor said. “I mean, it’s the wilderness. But if I were a bear, someplace that gets visited by that many tourists is probably the last place I’d want to hang out.”

  “What about all those pic-a-nic baskets?” I inquired with a grin.

  “It’s Oak Creek, not Jellystone. I think we’ll be okay.”

  I had to agree with that. Still, though, my spidey-sense kept tingling…and not in a good way.

  * * *

  Two days later I was sitting at the same café where I’d met Mason and Carla the previous week. Connor had gone to meet with Eli Michaels at his gallery in Sedona, a business meeting I obviously hadn’t been invited to. Not that I minded too much; I didn’t want Connor to think we had to be joined at the hip twenty-four/seven. And it probably was a good thing for me to get out on my own every once in a while, although going approximately four doors down from our apartment couldn’t really be classified as being adventurous.

  Someone had left a copy of that morning’s newspaper lying on one of the chairs at the table I’d selected. I picked up the paper, figuring I’d give it a quick glance-through. Connor and I had bought an iPad Mini the previous week during a splurge at Best Buy, but I didn’t feel like digging it out of my purse.

  I set down my coffee, then picked up the newspaper and smoothed it out before me. The top part of the front page was dedicated to bond issues and street improvements — necessary, I supposed, but not the sort of thing I really wanted to waste my time reading. But then I saw another, smaller headline in the lower right-hand corner of the page: “Coroner Determines Cause of Student’s Death.”

  It had been a few days since that first report on the TV, and I hadn’t seen any follow-up to it. Then again, Connor and I didn’t watch much news, or anything else on broadcast television. If we wanted to relax in the evening, we watched Net
flix or HBO or something. Not that I’d been dwelling on it, but the report of the girl’s death had felt like a hanging thread, something that needed closure.

  Picking up my coffee and blowing on it gently, I scanned the article.

  According to the preliminary coroner’s report, Theresa Irene Ivey, age 20, died of blood loss caused by extreme trauma in the form of wild animal bites to the jugular.

  I shivered. In other words, something tore her throat out.

  Analysis of the bite marks shows that the animal in question appears to be a gray wolf. Fish and game officials are puzzled, as gray wolves are not native to the area. “We’re attempting to save the Mexican wolf from extinction,” Harold Willis, a wildlife expert explained, “but those wolves roam a small area in the Blue Range, hundreds of miles from Flagstaff. They are not a threat, and in any case, it was not a Mexican wolf involved in the recent attack.”

  Authorities speculate that perhaps someone in the area was illegally keeping a gray wolf as a pet, and it escaped and attacked Ms. Ivey. However, no one has come forward to report a missing wolf, and inquiries have turned up no leads. The investigation is ongoing, and people are urged to be cautious but not worried. The animal that attacked Ms. Ivey did not have rabies, and authorities are unsure as to why she was the victim, as the attack occurred near her apartment, in a populated area.

  Anyone who sees a wolf is encouraged to dial 9-1-1. Under no circumstances is anyone to approach the animal.

  There was also a small photo of the victim. When my gaze shifted to study it, I sucked in a breath, cold descending on me, even though the café was actually almost too warm.

  Theresa Ivey looked like me.

  All right, not exactly. Her chin was more pointed than mine, her features actually not all that similar, once you began to study them one by one, but still, she had long wavy dark hair and fair skin and eyes that could have been blue or green or gray — the black and white photo obviously couldn’t show that level of detail. But if you were looking from a distance, or out of the corner of your eye, well, then, you could say we looked a lot alike.

  Just a coincidence, I tried to tell myself. After all, Flagstaff wasn’t tiny Jerome. In a population of more than 60,000 people, there were bound to be a good number of college-age women who were more or less my same physical type.

  For some reason, that didn’t make me feel all that much better.

  Although my stomach was roiling enough that drinking a cup of coffee suddenly didn’t sound like such a great idea, I made myself take a few more sips just so I wouldn’t be entirely wasteful. Then I folded up the newspaper and tucked it under my arm. I wanted Connor to see this.

  * * *

  “All right, it’s kind of strange,” he admitted after reading the article and studying the photo. “Especially the wolf part. There are no wolves for hundreds of miles — haven’t been for years and years. But the victim? I think you’re trying to see patterns that aren’t there.”

  “Isn’t that what witches do?” I asked, then added quickly, as his brows began to knit together, “That is, see patterns that are hidden to most people. What’s the point of having powers if they can’t help us do things regular people can’t?”

  He let out a sigh, then pushed the paper aside and laid his hand on top of mine. We were sitting on the couch next to one another; he smelled slightly of linseed oil and turpentine, but I didn’t mind all that much. It was just good to be there next to him, to feel the reassuring strength of his body next to me. Although I could tell he didn’t think the resemblance was anything but a coincidence, his tone was gentle as he said, “I don’t know…I think you could be reaching here. Like the article said, it was probably somebody’s pet wolf that got loose somehow and, I don’t know, went after her because she had food on her or something. They don’t mention it, but it has to be something like that. Wild animals don’t attack without reason.”

  No, generally they didn’t. Again that sense of unease washed over me, the feeling that some threat hovered on the horizon, out of sight but still dangerous, like the scent of smoke that precedes a fast-moving brushfire. But I knew if I said anything else I’d sound as if I were trying to invent something that wasn’t there. I didn’t know what was wrong, only that something was. And until I could figure it out, there wasn’t much point in pressing the issue.

  * * *

  Three days later, another body was found, this time right on campus at the edge of one of the parking lots. The bite wounds were identical to the ones on Theresa Ivey.

  “Everyone is really freaking out,” Carla said, and she and Mason exchanged a worried glance. They were both seniors at Northern Pines. “No one’s supposed to walk alone, especially not at night.”

  They’d come over to hang out and talk, and we were in the living room, enjoying the warmth of a newly laid fire. Who cared if it was almost the Ides of March — the temperature had stayed below freezing for the past two days. Connor was over in his studio, painting, so he certainly didn’t mind me having Carla and Mason over. In fact, although he hadn’t said it out loud, I got the feeling he was glad that I’d made friends at all, if maybe a little surprised that I’d warmed up to two of the Wilcoxes the way I had with the cousins.

  “Did you — did you know either one of them?” I asked.

  Carla nodded. “I knew Alison, the second girl. She was in my social statistics class. Not that we were friends or anything, but we traded notes a couple of times. I think she worked part-time as a waitress at one of the breweries downtown here. I can’t remember which one, though.” Her face clouded, and then her gaze sharpened as she looked at me.

  “What?” But somehow I had a feeling that I knew what she was about to say.

  “No, it’s nothing.” Leaning forward, she picked up her neglected cup of chai and wrapped her hands around it, as if she needed it to ward off a chill, even though the room was plenty warm.

  Mason was giving her cousin the same quizzical look I knew I wore on my face. “It’s something — you wouldn’t look that way if it wasn’t. So spill.”

  A hesitation, and then Carla’s fingers tightened on the heavy brown mug she was holding. “It’s just — you wouldn’t know this, because they haven’t released any photos of Alison, but she looked a lot like Theresa, the first girl who was killed. I mean, not like sisters or anything, but the same coloring and height.”

  Cold was working its way down my spine, too, and neither the cozy room nor the cup of hot tea I held were doing much to help.

  She continued, “And I remembered how when I first saw you at the potluck in Christmas, I thought you reminded me of someone, and then when I went back after winter break, I realized it was Alison from my stats class. I didn’t really think about it after that because I was busy, and, well, people are always reminding you of someone, right? But after the attacks started, and I realized both of the girls who were killed looked sort of like you, Angela….” Trailing off, she lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s nothing, right? Or is it some kind of messed-up serial killer, with, I don’t know, Wolverine claws or something? They always have a type, right?”

  For a long moment no one said anything. Mason, apparently realizing I wasn’t going to answer her cousin’s question, said derisively, “They were bite marks, not claw marks, so there goes your serial-killer theory. It’s just a weird coincidence. I mean, yeah, both girls had dark hair. So do I. Does that make me a target for the next wolf attack?”

  “Nobody’s going to be a target, because that’s not how wolves think,” Carla snapped, obviously irritated that Mason had shot down her serial-killer theory so quickly. “I mean, they must have attacked because they were hungry and the girls had food or something. It had nothing to do with what they looked like.”

  “How do you know?” Mason shot back. “None of the reports said anything about food. They would have mentioned it if that was really what happened. And they’d be telling everyone not to carry food with them when they walk around cam
pus. It’s just common sense.”

  Carla didn’t appear to have an answer for that. Her mouth opened and then shut, as if she’d thought of a rebuttal, only to realize it wasn’t going to help her case any.

  “It’s strange,” I agreed, since I figured I’d better contribute something. “I don’t think it means anything, though.” Well, that was what I told them. I thought it did mean something, although what, I couldn’t really begin to guess. “There are lots of dark-haired girls who attend Northern Pines. I’m not going to run a statistical analysis or anything, but I have a feeling it would be a lot stranger if they were both redheads or something like that.”

  “True,” Carla agreed. “I know we all are looking for a pattern because that’s what people do. Doesn’t mean there is one.”

  I forced myself to nod. Did two data points really constitute a pattern? Carla’s statistics professor would probably have a few choice words on the subject.

  In the meantime, I’d just have to hope that those two data points — also known as Theresa and Alison — wouldn’t expand into something far, far worse.

  15

  Yee Naaldlooshii

  The next day, the body of another young woman was found, and the day after that, yet another. Classes at Northern Pines were canceled, according to Mason, who called me to say she and Carla and some of their friends were taking an impromptu vacation to Tucson.

  “The campus was crawling with fish and game people, police, sheriffs, maybe even the FBI,” she told me. “I would’ve stayed away even if they hadn’t canceled classes indefinitely, but at least this way everyone’s going to have a short semester, so I won’t have to play makeup with my classes. Besides, it’s eighty-five degrees down in Tucson. I’m so ready to bust out some sandals.”