by Bailey Cates
“I thought I did. Probably just the wind.”
I frowned. If we were in the movie we’d just been watching, probably just the wind would have meant anything but.
Mungo sprang to the floor and stopped still, his feet foursquare. He cocked his head one way, then the other, then suddenly let out a long series of sharp barks. He was headed for the stairs when the sound of glass breaking echoed from down below. He yelped and scampered back as I bolted to my feet.
“It’s the front window!” Declan said. “Someone threw something—” He was cut off by a loud whooshing sound accompanied by the smell of gasoline.
“Molotov cocktail,” he yelled. “Katie, get outside!”
I ran for the stairs, one part of my brain in complete panic and the other part cataloging what I was seeing: flames erupting from the middle of the living room, licking along the wooden floor, already creeping up the legs of the wingback chairs and reaching for the purple couch. The firelight was reflected in glittering glass shards from the front window, which I hadn’t yet shuttered against the night. Thick smoke began to rise toward the ceiling.
“No! No, Katie, over here!”
Following the sound of his voice, I saw Declan had opened the window at the back of the loft all the way. He punched out the screen with a single blow of his fist and hooked a rope ladder over the edge of the sill. I vaguely remembered the ladder as part of a fire kit he’d insisted I keep in one of the cupboards. I’d scoffed at the time, calling it overkill.
I’ll never scoff again at anything he does, ever, if we get out of this alive.
“Come on!” he yelled.
“You go first,” I said, grabbing up Mungo.
“No. You go. I’ll hand you Mungo.”
There wasn’t time to argue. I ran to the window, handed Declan my familiar, and swung my leg outside. I found the first rung with my foot and brought the other one out. Holding on to the windowsill with one hand, I bundled Mungo against my chest with the other. He tucked his head and held still, never letting out so much as a whimper or a wiggle.
“Good boy,” I whispered. “I’ve got you.”
“Go on down,” Declan called in a loud voice. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I stepped down to the next rung. I would have given nearly anything to have a sling or my tote bag, or any safe way to carry Mungo, but I didn’t. I also didn’t want to let go with the one hand I could really use to hang on to the unsteady ladder. So I ended up running my hand from the sill to the rope at the side of the ladder, inching it down to the next rung, where I could take purchase, and taking another step down.
Then I did it all over again.
It seemed to take an eternity to get from one step to the next. About halfway down, my fingers cramped, and I nearly lost my grip. Hooking my arm around a rung, I hung there for a moment, catching my breath and trying to convince myself that I didn’t have to hang on quite so hard.
With a pang, I realized I was making Declan wait. He couldn’t get onto a flimsy ladder like this if I was still on it. Heck, I wasn’t sure it would hold him once I was on the ground. But right now he was up there in the loft where all the toxic smoke was rising from the burning furniture below him.
Hurry.
I took the next step and looked up to tell him I was almost down, but he wasn’t watching out the window. Panic rose in my chest. Why wasn’t he there?
Mungo nosed my neck, reminding me that we were still stuck twelve feet above the ground.
“Okay, okay,” I muttered, and began inching my way down again.
Finally, I stepped on solid ground. I quickly put Mungo down. “I need to check inside. You stay safe.”
Yip!
I knew I could trust him. As I turned to run to the back patio, I felt in my pocket. My phone! I took a couple of steps and realized a shadowy figure was standing between me and the back door to the carriage house. My heart bucked, and adrenaline flooded my veins. Then I saw who it was.
“Margie? Oh, thank God. Where are the kids? They need to stay inside.”
“They’re with Redding at his mother’s.”
“Whew!” I held up my phone. “Have you already called 911?”
“No.”
“Oh.” I frowned. Why did she sound so funny? “I’ll do it.” I began to dial.
She stepped forward and knocked the phone out of my hand.
I stared at her, stunned. “What . . . Why did you do that?” I spluttered.
As she moved her left arm, I realized she’d been holding something behind her back. Now she brought it up, and I saw what it was.
A butcher knife. It looked brand-new. Very shiny—and sharp.
“What is wrong with you?” I screamed, utterly terrified to see my friend like this—not to mention that I had a particular phobia about knives anywhere but in the kitchen. And yet, as the question came out of my mouth, I already knew the answer.
The sharp whistle that came from the back corner of the yard confirmed my worst fear.
Margie took a step toward me. I backed away, toward the direction the whistle had come from.
Where is Declan?
Slowly, I continued backward, Margie keeping pace, her eyes not seeming to recognize me, her hand surer on that knife blade than it would ever have been in her kitchen.
“John!” I called. “I know it’s you behind this. I know what you did to me. And I know what you did to Orla.”
A low laugh sounded behind me. It gave me the chills. I glanced over my shoulder, but saw only the moonlit garden beds. It wasn’t like I could turn my back on Margie for a proper look, either.
“The police know about Orla, too. And they know about how you manipulate people into getting concrete work they don’t need.”
This time there was no laugh, only silence. Did he believe me? Or was he up to something else? Could he have left now that he had Margie hypnotized to do his dirty work?
Movement in the shadows of the gazebo made my heart leap. Had John moved?
Hoping against hope that it was Declan hiding by the gazebo, and not John Black, I narrowed my eyes in an attempt to see better.
Margie took advantage of my attention wandering from her to take two quick steps toward me, and I stumbled backward.
The figure behind her stepped into the moonlight. It wasn’t Declan. It was the head of the Black clan.
Quietly, he padded toward Margie.
“Watch out!” I screamed. “Margie, turn around!”
It was as if she hadn’t heard me at all. She didn’t even blink.
He came up behind her and met my eyes for a split second before he wrapped his arms around hers, pinning them to her sides. She bent and twisted, trying to throw him off. She was a big girl, and he wasn’t terribly tall or young, but he was muscular nonetheless. He managed to hang on.
“Leave her alone!” I yelled.
“I’m trying to keep her from killing you, you nitwit. I’ve been trying to keep you safe from that boy ever since I found out he killed Orla.” Pain shone in his eyes. “Go.” He grunted with the effort of holding Margie. “Run.”
He’s trying to save me . . . ? From whom?
My mind flicked through the possibilities in a flash as I turned to run.
Finn?
No. He didn’t kill his mother.
Aiden?
What possible motive?
Taber?
The ventriloquist who could throw his voice. The one who had been right there when Orla had had trouble with a client on the riverfront, and the one who had helped threaten Spud the juggler. The man who benefited from his mother-in-law’s life insurance through both his wife and his daughter, a payout that wouldn’t occur if his wife divorced him or if Orla somehow managed to cancel the insurance on her own life.
Yes. Taber.
De
clan came around the corner of the house. His face was smudged with soot, and one side of his hair was matted to his head. Water dripped from his T-shirt. He grabbed the hem of the wet fabric as he walked, and pulled it up to wipe his face and red-rimmed eyes.
“Aargh!” Margie cried out as John wrestled her to the ground. I stopped in my tracks. She still had the knife, and I was afraid for him.
Still, what I called out was, “Don’t hurt her. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“I know that!” he gritted out, finally getting a hold on her wrist and pressing until she opened her hand.
The butcher knife fell to the ground. Silently, she reached for it with her other hand. I rushed forward and kicked it away.
“What the hell is going on?” Declan demanded.
“Nice,” Taber said, stepping out from behind the witch hazel bush. He was carrying Cobby, the creepy wooden dummy. “We’ll just have to try again.” But the next words came from Cobby, the voice high and thready, like that of a querulous old woman. “John, get up.”
Hearing that voice brought it all flooding back. Everything that had been in the heavy seamless box that Dr. Borlof had helped me get rid of that morning. I began shaking all over as I remembered.
The afternoon before, after I’d left Fern’s town house and was walking down the block to my car, Taber had stepped out from the end unit, the second one with a red door, and invited me in. I’d hesitated, and then he’d held up Cobby, and Cobby had invited me in. And I’d gone.
He’d told me what route to take home. He’d told me when I got to Louisville Road to speed up and head for the bridge support as fast as my car would take me. And he’d told me to forget that he’d talked to me, and that all I’d need was to hear the whistle.
It hadn’t been regular hypnosis, not the kind Dr. Borlof had used that morning to clear away Taber’s ugly suggestions. It had been something like hypnosis—plus exactly what Declan and I had suspected. His Voice.
Taber O’Cleary had a very powerful Voice indeed, but he seemed to need the dummy to make it work.
Well, two could play at that game.
Then I remembered the last thing he’d done right before he’d sent me off to my car—and my death.
He’d kissed me on the cheek. His lips had felt moist, like two worms against my skin. The memory made me ill, and instinctively I wiped at my face with the back of my hand as if I could erase the violation.
Then I got angry.
I picked up the knife. Not because I had any intention of using it, but because I didn’t want anyone else to use it at Taber’s—or Cobby’s—behest. But Taber didn’t know that.
“John, take that knife away from her,” the dummy shrieked. “Hurry!”
The older man shook his head, as if trying to throw off Cobby’s suggestion. Then he took a step toward me.
“John, go wait out front,” I said, layering my own considerable Voice between the words. It felt rusty. I’d been too frightened to use it.
Now I didn’t have a choice.
John hesitated.
“Go on,” I said to him. “It’s okay.” I added a little more Voice.
“Get the knife!” Cobby demanded.
John stayed where he was.
Margie got to her feet, though. She seemed confused. Declan was striding toward me.
Too much was going on at once, and every time I used my Voice, I felt like I was betraying myself—and Declan. I’d almost killed him with it once, and though I’d slipped a couple of times since then and used it in its mildest form possible, I’d sworn I’d never use it full force again.
Now I wanted to use it. I needed to. But what if it was wrong? What if I hurt someone again?
As if he sensed my hesitation, Taber lunged forward. Holding the dummy high, he turned toward Declan, who was now ten feet away from me, blinking in a red-eyed daze.
Oh. Hell no.
Without thinking, I leaped in front of Declan, reaching out to everything I knew. To the thrumming energy of the earth below, to the spirits of the water in the stream, to the elements of air all around us, and to the fire of the flames that had flown through my window and the cold fire of Luna shining down on us from above. I invoked the archangels Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, and Uriel, and grabbed the tendrils of power extended to me by Mungo nearby and Connell deep inside Declan. Nonna was there, too, and someone new.
Orla?
In less than an instant, I wove the energies together into a shield in front of Declan and myself, spreading my arms wide and finalizing it with one Voice-laden word.
No.
A streak of moonlight sparked on the tip of the knife I still held in my right hand and shot down my arm. My skin erupted with light.
Taber’s eyes grew wide. For a few seconds, he stood rooted to the spot, his mouth open, his dummy silent. Then he turned and ran.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” I ran after him.
He was laughing as he clambered over the back fence. He moved like a monkey, and it was true that there was no way I could catch him.
But I didn’t want Taber.
A split second before Orla’s murderer was over it, I reached the fence. Dropping the knife, I grabbed Cobby by the shoulders and pulled. Hard.
“No, no, let go, let go,” Taber protested. Only it was the dummy’s voice. Or, rather, the dummy’s Voice.
“Doesn’t work on me anymore,” I said, and gave another yank.
The wooden doll came flying out of his grasp. Taber howled, standing on the other side of the fence. Holding the awful thing as far away from me as I could, I ran over to the stream. Declan caught up with me there.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Drown it.”
Did it just twitch in my hand? Yes.
I shuddered and almost dropped it. Then I gritted my teeth and tightened my grip.
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “It’s made of wood.”
I held it above the water. “I’ve neutralized other things in this stream. Maybe it will work on this.” I plunged the dummy into the recently moon-blessed, spring-fed, live water.
A cloud of steam rose, as if the dummy had been molten steel. The stream boiled and hissed. Stunned and frightened, I leaped away.
Declan caught me, and we stood like that for what seemed like a long time, watching the steam dissipate, the water settle. A cloudiness marred the sparkling surface for a few minutes; then that washed away, too. Hesitantly, I dipped my fingers into the cool, clear water, touching a submersed wooden leg.
It just felt like wood. It didn’t seem creepy at all.
Cobby was dead.
A soft sob came from the direction of the fence, then a rustling. We ran over, and I pulled myself up in time to see Taber running away through the field on the other side.
Declan started to climb over, but I put my hand on his arm. “Let him go. He can’t do any harm now. We’ll tell the police about . . . Well, we’ll think of something.”
I looked back and saw John Black still stood in the middle of the yard. His eyes were clear now, though full of a deep, incomprehensible sorrow.
“Taber killed Orla, didn’t he?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you turn him in?” I asked.
“No one would have believed me,” he said. “And even if they had, it would have destroyed the family.” His jaw set. “I would have punished him in time, though.”
I believed him.
Turning, John Black walked out toward the street. Perhaps he knew where Taber had gone. Perhaps he wanted only to return to his family. A sharp arrow of gratitude caught me by surprise. The man had tried to warn me away numerous times—not to threaten me, but to protect me from Taber’s nasty manipulations.
“Katie? I seem to . . . I think
I might have had a little too much wine.”
Margie was swaying on her feet beside the gazebo. Mungo hovered protectively by her foot.
I hurried over, pulling Declan with me. “Oh, honey, that’s okay. I think we’ve all had a bit too much wine. Don’t you, Deck?”
He stared at me, then blinked. “Right,” he said, then turned a high-wattage smile on Margie. “Let me walk you home. Where’s Redding again?”
“He took the kids over to his mother’s for the night. It’s funny—I don’t feel like I had too much wine, but how did . . . ?”
“We had some excitement,” Declan said, meeting my eyes before turning away. “It’s all kind of a blur for me, too.”
“Why is your shirt wet?” Margie asked as she and Declan went through the gate to the front yard.
“Oh no! The fire!” I gasped, and ran to the patio, Mungo close at my heel.
Chapter 21
I rushed to the French doors, pulled them open, and went inside. The smell was horrific, a mean chemical scent of burned upholstery and varnish, and fire extinguisher chemicals. My throat tightened against it, and for a moment, it felt like I was choking.
Fire extinguisher. It’s out. Declan put the fire out. He saved the carriage house.
Hoping against hope, I reached into the kitchen and flipped the switch by the door. Yellow light flooded through the opening, illuminating enough of the living room to reveal the extent of the damage. Breathing into the crook of my elbow, I surveyed the ruin one flaming bottle of gasoline had wrought.
The floor was streaked with black, and in places it was burned through to leave only striated swaths of charcoal. The chairs and couch were utter trash, singed and soggy, slumped in permanent defeat. The trunk had survived the Civil War, but not the Molotov cocktail. The metal might be able to be saved, but the wood along the sides was as black as the middle of the floor. The bookcase looked relatively unscathed, though the protective basil wreath above it had burned to delicate white ash. That smell would permeate everything I owned. I wouldn’t be able to keep much of anything.
I didn’t care. The house was okay.
The front door was open. The garden hose still lay across the threshold where Declan had left it after using it to help put out the fire. That was why he hadn’t come down the rope ladder behind me. A firefighter through and through, he’d saved me, then come back to fight the flames.
