‘It doesn’t work for us,’ said Beauclaire, but his voice was absentminded. He was watching Charles. Not looking him in the eye, not quite.
Goldstein said, ‘I have more details on that.’ He opened up his briefcase and handed Charles a thick file of photographs. ‘Most of the victims have shapes carved into their skin – we’ve been looking at the witchcraft or voodoo angle for the past ten years. But the witches willing to talk to us only say that it’s not anything they know. Not voodoo or hoodoo. It’s not runes. It’s not hieroglyphs, nor any other symbolic language used by witches.’
Charles opened up the folder and then spread the photos out on the coffee table. These were mostly blowups or close-ups, some in black and white, some in color. Names, dates, and numbers were written in white marking pen on the upper left corner. The photos documented symbols, ragged and dark around the edges. Some of the markings were ripped down the middle by angry slashes; others were distorted by degradation of the flesh they had been carved in.
‘They lied to you,’ said Charles, bending over to get a closer look at one.
‘Who?’
‘The witches,’ said Beauclaire. He pulled one out of the mix, then set it back down quickly. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again they were hot with … rage or terror; Anna’s nose wasn’t sure which.
‘The symbols witches use,’ Beauclaire told Goldstein in polite, formal tones, ‘follow family lines, for the most part. I can’t, but the witches should have been able to tell you what family line these came from. There’s something wrong with the way they’re placed or the shape … In a very long life, I have seen many things. I do not perform blood magic, but I’ve seen it often enough.’
Charles turned one of the photos to view it from a different angle and frowned. He took his phone out of his pocket and took a close-up of one of the photos. He hit a few more buttons and put the phone to his ear.
‘Charles,’ said Bran.
‘Ears might hear,’ warned Charles, telling his father that there was someone else in the room who could overhear their phone call. ‘I sent you a photo. Looks like witchcraft to me. What do you think?’
‘I’ll call you back,’ Bran said and hung up.
Goldstein rubbed his face tiredly. ‘We’re supposed to be holding these back from the public,’ he said. ‘Can I ask that the photo won’t hit the Internet or the news services?’
‘You’re safe,’ Anna reassured him. ‘We’re calling in an expert opinion.’
The phone rang before anyone could say anything. Charles put it on speaker as he answered it.
‘Everyone can hear you now,’ he said.
There was a little pause before Bran spoke. ‘You need to get a witch to look at that. It appears to be something from the Irish clans to me, but it doesn’t look quite right. Some of those symbols are nonsense and a few others are drawn wrong. It would be best if the witch could see the real thing, not just the photos. There’s more to a spell than only the visual can tell you.’
‘Thanks,’ Charles said, hanging up without ceremony. ‘So, anyone know a local witch we can talk to?’
‘I know a witch,’ said Leslie. ‘But she’s in Florida.’
Charles shook his head. ‘If we’re going to bring someone up, I know a reliable one or two. Do you know any in Boston?’ He looked at Beauclaire, who shook his head.
‘I know of none who would help.’
‘If we find someone,’ Anna said, ‘could we get her in to see one of the bodies?’
‘We can arrange it,’ said Leslie.
‘All right, then, let’s call the local Alpha and see if he has a witch who will cooperate with us.’
Charles dialed and then gave Anna his phone. ‘He likes you better. You ask him.’
‘He’s scared of me,’ Anna said, feeling a little smug.
‘This is Owens.’
‘Isaac, this is Anna,’ she said. ‘We need a witch.’
The FBI agents left to arrange a viewing for the witch, who wouldn’t be available until ten in the morning. Beauclaire told them he was going to see if he could find anyone who might know if the horned lord who died in 1981 had left any half-blood children behind.
Anna waited until Charles had closed the door. ‘What do you see in the mirror?’ she asked him.
He closed his eyes and did not turn to look at her.
‘Charles?’
‘There are things,’ he said slowly, ‘that are made better by talking them out. There are things that are given more power when you speak of them. These are of the second variety.’
She thought about that for a moment and then went to him. The muscles of his back were tight when she touched them with her fingertips.
‘It doesn’t appear,’ she said slowly, ‘that being silent about whatever it is has helped, either.’ What kinds of things did he not like to talk about? Evil, she remembered. ‘Is it like a Harry Potter thing?’
He turned his head then. ‘A what?’
‘A Harry Potter thing,’ she said again. ‘You know, don’t say Voldemort’s name because you might attract his attention?’
He considered it. ‘You mean the children’s book.’
‘I have got to get you to watch more movies,’ she said. ‘You’d enjoy these. Yes, I mean the children’s book.’
He shook his head. ‘Not quite. Noticing some things make them more real. They are already real to me. If you notice them, they might become real to you as well, and that would not be good.’
Suddenly she knew. Charles had told her once that he didn’t speak his mother’s name for fear that it would tie her to this world and not let her go on to the next. Ghosts, he’d told her, need to be mourned and then released. If you keep them with you, they become unhappy and tainted.
‘Ghosts,’ she said, and he drew in a sharp breath and stepped away from her, closer to the window.
‘Don’t,’ he said sharply. She’d have snapped back at him if she hadn’t remembered that when he’d closed down their bond he’d been worried about her.
‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘You feel better than before we came here, though. Right?’ If he was getting better, he was dealing with it.
He had to think about that one before he answered her. ‘Yes. Not good, but better.’
She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and breathed him in. ‘I’ll leave it alone if you promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If it starts getting worse again, you’ll tell me – and you’ll tell Bran.’
‘I can do that.’
‘All right.’ She brushed off the back of his shirt, as if there were some lint or something on it and not as though her hands were hungry for the warmth of his skin. ‘Sleep or breakfast?’ she asked briskly. ‘We have two hours before the FBI picks us up and takes us to the morgue.’
The small, sheet-covered body on the table smelled of rotting flesh, salt, and fish. None of which managed to quite cover up the lingering scent of terror. From the size of the corpse, Anna thought he might have been seven or eight.
Anna had been Changed by rape both physical and metaphorical. She had served three years in a pack led by a madwoman, during which time death had become something to look forward to, an end to pain. Charles had changed all of that – and Anna appreciated the irony that the Marrok’s Wolfkiller, arguably the most feared werewolf in the world, had made her safe and made her want to live.
Irony aside, Anna knew death. The morgue smelled of it, as well as a healthy dose of antiseptic, latex gloves, and body fluids. When they had entered the small viewing room, the scent of a little boy added itself to the mix, a boy who rightfully should be out playing with his friends and instead bore the unmistakable signs of autopsy.
Beside her, Brother Wolf growled, the sound low enough that she didn’t think any of the humans heard it. He’d come as wolf – again. Anna dug her fingers through the fur of his neck and swallowed hard, trying to focus on something b
esides the little body on the table. Even worry about her mate was better than a dead child.
Charles promised that he’d let her know if it got worse – but he hadn’t reopened the bond between them, not even wide enough that he could talk to her while he was in wolf shape.
‘His family were supposed to pick him up today,’ said the man who’d let them in. He was dressed in scrubs that were clean and fresh – either he was just beginning his day, or he’d changed for them. ‘When I explained to them that a werewolf had offered to look for clues we couldn’t find, it was not difficult to persuade them to leave him here until tomorrow.’
‘You didn’t tell his parents they were bringing me, too?’ said the witch, who looked like she’d come right out of a 1970s sitcom – middle-aged, a little dumpy, a little rumpled, hair an improbable shade of red, and wearing clothes that didn’t quite fit. ‘The werewolf is incidental and, I might add, begged the witch to come – and you didn’t think to mention me?’ The death threat in her voice did a fair job of removing any sense of comedy, though Anna couldn’t help but think of Sleeping Beauty and the evil fairy who was offended because she wasn’t invited.
Anna didn’t like witches on the whole. They smelled of other people’s pain and they liked causing problems. But even if this one hadn’t been a witch, she doubted she’d have liked her.
Dr Fuller – Anna had missed Leslie’s introduction of their contact at the morgue while absorbing the smells of the place, but he wore a name tag – frowned. ‘He comes from a staunch Baptist family. Werewolves were a big stretch for them already. I didn’t think they’d have taken to the idea of a witch at all well.’
The witch smiled. ‘Probably not,’ she agreed cheerfully, just as if she hadn’t taken offense a moment before.
Isaac had warned Anna that his witch of choice was a little unstable. He’d also told her that the witch wasn’t all that powerful, so the harm she could do was minimal. He had another witch who worked upon occasion for his pack, but that one was secretive and a lot more dangerous. The witch here now, Caitlin (last name withheld), would tell them everything she found out, just to prove how much she knew. The other would keep it to herself for later use or just for her own amusement, which wouldn’t do Lizzie any good at all.
‘Tell them we appreciate their cooperation,’ said Heuter, the younger Cantrip agent, who had shown up as they were waiting for the witch in front of the building where the county morgue resided. He’d claimed that someone told him that they were going to visit the body, but from Leslie’s attitude (polite but distant) it hadn’t been her.
Goldstein had been called away to discuss the case with someone in the Boston Police Department, so Heuter’s addition made them five. Had there been any more of them, they’d have had to leave the door to the small room open.
Dr Fuller pulled back the sheet. ‘Jacob Mott, age eight. Water in his lungs tells us that he drowned. Joggers found him washed up on Castle Island early in the morning. His parents tell us that he did not have pierced ears, so the killer must have pierced both – though only the left ear was tagged. The tag is in evidence.’
Anna let the words run in one ear and out the other. They were unimportant next to the small body laid out before them. Besides, Charles would remember every word – and she didn’t want to.
Jacob had been in the water and the fishes had nibbled, though he wouldn’t have cared at that point. Compared to what had been done to this boy, the fish were only a footnote. Death had nothing much to teach Anna, but dying … dying could be so hard. Jacob’s dying had been very hard.
The witch reached out and touched the body with a lust Anna could smell even with her human nose.
‘Ooh,’ she crooned, and the doctor’s clinical recitation stumbled to a halt. ‘Didn’t you make someone a lovely meal, child?’ She put her face down on the boy’s chest, and Anna wanted to grab her and rip her off. Anna folded her arms across her chest instead. No use ticking the witch off before they got what they needed from her. Jacob was past caring what the witch did.
‘Someone’s been a naughty girl,’ the witch said to herself as her fingers traced a series of symbols incised into the boy’s thigh. She pulled her face away and began humming ‘It’s a Small World’ as her fingers continued to trace the marks on the body. ‘There’s surely more on the back,’ she said, looking at the doctor.
Mutely he nodded, and she picked up the body and rolled Jacob on his face. She was strong, for all that she looked lumpy and dumpy, because she didn’t have to struggle particularly. Dead bodies were, mostly, harder to move than live ones.
More on the back, the witch had said, and there were. More symbols and more marks of abuse. Anna swallowed hard.
‘Before death,’ said the witch happily. ‘All of it was done before death. Someone harvested your pain and your ending, didn’t they, little one? But they were sloppy, sloppy with it. Not professional, not at all.’ Her hands caressed the dead boy. ‘I recognize this. Bad Sally Reilly. She wasn’t a very talented witch, was she? But she wrote a book and went on TV and wrote more books and became famous. Pretty, pretty Sally sold her services and then – poof, she went. Just like a witch who was bad and broke all the rules should.’
‘Sally Reilly carved these symbols?’ asked Agent Fisher, her voice only a little sharp.
‘Sally Reilly is dead. Twenty years or more dead, because she gave mundane people a way to do this.’ Caitlin bent down and licked the dead boy’s skin, and Heuter drew in a harsh breath. ‘But they did it wrong and they didn’t get it all, did they? They left all this lovely magic behind instead of eating it.’
‘Precious,’ murmured Anna.
The witch tilted her head. ‘What did you say?’
‘You forgot the “my precious,” ’ Anna said dryly. ‘If you want to act like a freaking nutcase, you have to do it right.’
The witch lowered her eyelashes, flicked her hands at Anna, and said something that sounded almost like a sneeze. Brother Wolf bumped Anna aside, flexed a little as if he were absorbing a hit, and then hopped over the table, pushing the witch away from Jacob Mott’s body and onto the floor. Neat and precise as a cat, he did it without touching Jacob at all, though he knocked Heuter and the doctor back a few paces.
Anna ran around the table so she could see what was going on, and so she saw Brother Wolf bare his ivory fangs at the witch – who immediately quit struggling.
‘Charles has a grandmother who was a witch and a grandfather who was a shaman – on opposite sides of his lineage,’ Anna said calmly into the silence. ‘You’re outmatched. Now, why don’t you tell us everything you know about the markings?’
A low growl worked its way out of Brother Wolf’s chest and she added, ‘Before he thinks too hard about whatever it was you tried to do to me.’ Anna wasn’t sure if Brother Wolf was really playing along with her or if he truly wanted to kill the witch, but she’d use what she had. Though space was tight in the room, the other people present managed to crowd together with the table between them and Brother Wolf. It might have been the witch they were trying to get away from.
‘The symbols inscribed are meant to increase the power of whoever is named in the ceremony,’ the witch Caitlin said, her voice somewhat higher and tighter than it had been. Sweat dripped down her forehead and into her eyes and she blinked it away.
‘You know,’ Anna told her. ‘If you quit staring him in the eye, he won’t be so likely to eat you.’ The witch turned to stare at Anna instead, and Brother Wolf increased the span of teeth he was showing and the threatening noise he was making. ‘Probably.’
‘So the symbols will increase a witch’s power?’ Leslie asked unexpectedly.
‘Yes.’
Brother Wolf snapped his teeth just short of Caitlin’s nose and the witch shrieked, jumped, and struggled involuntarily before forcing herself limp.
‘Werewolves,’ Anna said blandly, ‘can smell lies and half-truths, witch. I’d be very careful of what you say next. Now, answe
r Agent Fisher’s question, please. Will the symbols increase a witch’s power?’
Caitlin swallowed, her breathing rapid. ‘Yes – anyone’s magic abilities. Fae, witch, sorcerer, wizard, mage. Anything. You can store it. For use later. To power a spell or some magic.’
‘What could you store it in?’ Anna asked.
‘Something dense. Metal or crystal. Most of us use something that can be worn or carried easily.’ She hesitated, looked at Brother Wolf’s big teeth, and said, ‘But that’s not what happened with this spell, specifically. This is designed to feed the magic of a fae.’
‘So this boy was marked by a witch,’ Heuter said.
Caitlin snorted despite her terror of Brother Wolf and answered Heuter as if he’d asked a question instead of making a statement. ‘She only wishes she were a witch.’
‘What do you mean?’ Leslie’s voice was cool, as if she questioned witches who were flat on their backs being threatened by werewolves every day.
‘Some of the symbols are done wrong, and a couple of them are complete nonsense.’ The witch’s voice was laced with contempt. ‘Sally’s been gone since the late eighties. Maybe someone copied them wrong. A real witch would have been able to feel that they were off, and could have fine-tuned them on the spot. So someone’s playing make-believe witch.’ Caitlin spoke as if the boy’s life were less than nothing, that the worst thing the person carving on Jacob Mott had done was to get the symbols wrong.
‘Tell us about Sally Reilly,’ Anna suggested. ‘If she’s dead, what does she have to do with this?’
The witch set her jaw. ‘We don’t talk to outsiders about her.’
Brother Wolf gave her a little more fang to look at.
She swallowed.
‘If it makes you feel better,’ Anna murmured, ‘we do know some witches who will tell us what we want to know.’
‘Fine,’ said Caitlin. ‘Sally Reilly figured out a way to let mundane people use our spells. If someone paid her enough, she’d teach them how to write the symbols. She’d give them a charm that, if they wore it while they worked the magic – usually only one specific spell – behaved for them as if they were a real witch. Like playing a tape recorder instead of a violin, she liked to say. It’s been a long time since she was killed, and mostly people have lost either the symbols or the charms that allowed them to use the spell. This one was done wrong. It might have been drawn that way on purpose, though Sally had the reputation for delivering what she said she would. Probably they thought they had it memorized.’
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