Darknight (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 2) (21 page)

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 Netflix 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.

“
A
ll 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.

T
hree 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 campus. 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.

T
he 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.”

“And you got permission?” I asked. After all, Tucson was de la Paz territory. Maya had been extremely friendly the last time we met, but I wasn’t sure how she’d feel about a mass invasion of Wilcoxes.

“Oh, sure. Lucas handled it. Not sure why, since Damon should’ve been the one to make the call, but he’s been under the weather lately.”

“Really?” I interjected, thinking that sounded odd. Somehow I couldn’t imagine any virus being brave enough to take up residence in Damon Wilcox’s body.

“Yeah,” she replied. “I guess he hadn’t been in to teach for a couple of days even before everything got shut down. Anyway, I gotta go. You stay safe!”

I murmured that I would, and ended the call, my mind churning. Connor had been forced to agree with me that something strange was going on after images of the murdered young women were plastered all over the the news and stared up from the front page of every newspaper in town. All of them between twenty and twenty-three, all with long, dark, wavy hair, all fair-skinned, all slender. The tallest five-foot-seven, the shortest five-foot-four. In dim lighting, or if viewed by someone with bad vision, they probably would have looked almost identical.

“As long as you stick close to home, you’ll be fine,” he’d told me after I’d shoved that day’s paper in the trash, not wanting to have another face a little too much like mine staring at me from beneath a lurid headline. “The attacks were all on campus, or near campus housing…a lot of which backs up to open land. But here, downtown? No way would a wild animal come anywhere near this place.”

That made sense, but I still tried not to go out by myself except in broad daylight. Too bad, because I’d started to explore Flagstaff on my own, driving around in Connor’s FJ and enjoying the sense of freedom it gave me, even as he stayed indoors and painted like a madman. Another gallery show was planned for late April, and because he’d sold so many paintings already, he had a lot of work to do to rebuild his inventory.

After Mason’s latest revelations, my brain started working at the mystery. So Damon had been feeling ill lately? It could mean nothing…

…or it could mean everything.

No, that was ridiculous. I couldn’t deny that Damon was a master of dark and unknown magic, magic he’d manipulated to do things no one else could. And he’d certainly made himself scarce lately, but that didn’t mean much, other than him not wanting to see how happy Connor and I were together. True, Damon had apparently hooked up with Jessica. However, I had the distinct impression that was all about getting an heir, and had very little to do with true love or attraction. At least, not on his side. Jessica was clearly crazy (and I do mean
crazy
) about him.

But even stacking up every damning thing I knew about Damon still didn’t seem enough to make the leap from unscrupulous warlock and dabbler in dark magic to bloodthirsty and murderous wolf…werewolf…whatever. That was silly. Werewolves weren’t real. Neither were vampires or chupacabras or zombies. Witches, yes, of course. We were just people, though — people with some unusual gifts, true, but even the blackest warlock I’ve ever heard of had never gone rampaging around, killing college students just for shits and giggles. For one thing, it was the sort of behavior that attracted far too much attention. I couldn’t deny that murder had been done in the name of magic and power, and probably would again someday. But not wholesale murder. Not like this.

And I knew I didn’t dare say anything of my crazy suspicions to Connor, because he would definitely think that my dislike of Damon had gotten the better of me at last.

“That’s some frown you’re wearing,” Connor said, breaking my reverie as he came into our apartment from the studio across the hall.

Somehow I managed to keep myself from startling. “Is it? Sorry, just thinking. Mason called and said she and Carla are heading down to Tucson for some sun and to get away from it all. The campus is closed until further notice, apparently.”

He leaned down over the back of the couch and pressed his lips against my neck. Despite my worry, a delicious shiver passed over me at his touch. I reached up and behind me, pulling him closer, shifting so that now we were face to face, kissing, mouths opening to taste one another again.

“Taking a break?” I murmured after he pulled away slightly so he could draw in a breath.

“I am now.”

I didn’t need any further encouragement. Slipping off the couch, I stood and went over to him, put my arms around him, let him gather me up and take me to the stairs, then up to the bedroom we now shared. So good to forget everything except the warm scent of his skin, the strength of his hands as he caressed me, the unbelievable sense of completion as he filled me again, our bodies moving together in perfect rhythm.

Afterward, I lay in his arms and listened to the deep, regular sound of his heart beating, felt the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. It was so good to be here, safe in the circle of his arms. I wished it could always be like this, just the two of us with no outside worries or complications. Unfortunately, I knew that wasn’t the way the world worked.

A
t first the
closing of the campus seemed to have stopped the attacks. A day went by, then two, then three, and the whole town seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Whatever had caused the hideous rampage seemed to be over.

Until the body was found near a carport at an apartment complex a mile from the university. Same savage bites to the throat, same general description for the victim: early twenties, dark-haired, slender.

And I got a call from my Aunt Rachel, who was so spooked by what she’d read in the local paper that she even told me that Connor and I should leave Flagstaff for a while and come to Jerome.

“It would be good to see you, and I can’t stop worrying — that is, I was already worried, with you surrounded by Wilcoxes, and now with these horrible attacks — ”

“The Wilcoxes really aren’t a problem,” I cut in. “They’ve been very kind to me.”

“Oh, really?” Disbelief fairly dripped from her tone. “
All
of them?”

It was pretty obvious who she’d meant with that “all of them” remark. “Okay, Damon is not exactly the sweetest guy I’ve ever met, but there are some cousins who’re my age and have been really nice. They’re just people, Rachel. Not the boogeyman, not the big bad.”

“They’re brainwashing you.”

Of all the — “No, not really. Maybe it’s easier for you to think that than to realize this feud is silly and has gone on long enough.”

A long pause. Then she said coldly, “Angela, I love you, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve let yourself ignore their history because you care for Connor, and as far as I can tell, he does seem like a nice enough young man. It’s unfortunate he was born into that family. But all his good qualities have blinded you to who and what they are.”

I realized then it wouldn’t matter what I said. She’d long ago formed her opinion of the Wilcox clan, built on stories of their iniquities, stories that had been passed down from generation to generation. Talk about brainwashing. “Whatever. I’m not the one who’s blind here. Anyway, I think we’re just fine where we are. None of the attacks have taken place anywhere near our apartment, and I’m careful. I’ve stopped going out alone. So I’ll be okay until the authorities get it handled.”

“Angela — ”

“It was nice talking to you, Rachel.” I hung up without waiting for a reply. It was rude, but I didn’t want to hear any more of her diatribes about the Wilcoxes.

But her words had gotten me thinking again, thoughts going down pathways I’d tried to avoid. I’d asked Connor a few days earlier if he’d heard anything from Damon, and he’d said, his tone almost abrupt, that no, he hadn’t, but it wasn’t a big deal because they often went as much as a week at a time without talking if there wasn’t anything that Damon deemed worthy enough of conversation. What Connor had left unsaid was that Damon probably didn’t have much use for him anymore, that the little brother who’d once worshipfully done pretty much anything Damon asked was gone, replaced by someone who’d found his own purpose in life, and the sort of love the
primus
couldn’t begin to comprehend.

Maybe it really wasn’t a big deal. For all I knew, Jessica was keeping him trapped in the house so they could work full-time at making their perfect little Wilcox heir. Ugh. There was a visual I really didn’t need.

So I went across the landing to the studio and let myself in. The air was thick with the scent of linseed oil and turpentine. Once the weather warmed up, Connor would be able to open the windows and let the fresh air carry those smells away, but it was still far too cold for that.

His back was to me as he worked away on a large canvas, part of a triptych showing a panoramic canyon scene. There were at least ten reference photos clipped to the easel, all of which showed a blazing blue sky above rock formations so grand they had to be from the canyon of the same name. The photos must have been taken the summer before, and I suddenly ached for the return of warmer weather, of sandals and hot winds scented with dry grass, of a time that didn’t feel weighted down by perpetual winter. Well, the equinox was only three days off now. It would still be a long time before truly comfortable temperatures returned to Flagstaff, but they were on their way.

I was going to wait until Connor hit a stopping point before I said anything, but one of the floorboards creaked under my feet, and he turned at once. The slightest frown creased his forehead before he smoothed it away, then set down his paintbrush and came toward me.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

It was a valid question; generally I left him alone until he was done painting and was ready to come back over to the apartment. I didn’t like to disturb him when he worked, knowing how important it was for him to finally give free rein to his talents, to finally have the chance to be known for the gifted artist he truly was.

“Maybe. Yes. No.”

He grinned, green eyes dancing. “I don’t think it can be all three at once, sweetheart.”

My insides wanted to melt at his casual use of the endearment, but I knew if I didn’t broach the subject soon, I’d never have the nerve. Actually, I wasn’t sure if I had the guts to say it now, not with those green eyes I loved so much watching me, open and with no idea of what I was about to ask.

“Connor, I — ” Damn it, I should be tougher than this. I was the McAllister
prima
.
In name only,
I thought bitterly, and tried to push the notion aside. That was yet another situation which would have to be resolved in the near future. This problem —
possible problem,
I reminded myself — with Damon had to be addressed first. Was I willing to let more innocent girls die just because I was too cowardly to have this conversation with Connor?

He came to me then, pulling me against him and holding me close. One hand stroked my hair, and I caught a faint drift of the sage and chamomile soap he used to clean up when he was done painting for the day. “What is it? You know you can tell me anything.”

Could I, really? I knew he loved me, and I loved him, but even with that, even with the consort bond, there was so much we didn’t know about one another. And Damon had been the only person close to him for so many years. Connor truly wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for his brother’s intervention, and for all my personal dislike of the
primus,
I couldn’t ignore how important that one fact was, how the saving of a life created an enormously strong bond as well, even beyond the one they already shared as brothers.

And if I turned out to be wrong…if these sneaking doubts and suspicions were only that, and not the instincts of a
prima
at work…would Connor forgive me for thinking these things of his brother?

I didn’t want to think about that. He’d only been in my life for a few short months, but even so I couldn’t imagine losing him. No, that would never happen. The bond between a
prima
and her consort was unbreakable, even when stretched to the limit.

The words came forth in a rush, as if I knew I had to say them now before I talked myself out of uttering them. “I have a very bad feeling, Connor. You haven’t heard from Damon, and Mason said he’d been ill and hadn’t taught for a few days just before the attacks started. And with all those girls resembling one another…resembling
me
…you just can’t say that’s a coincidence anymore. I know you said he’d moved on, had focused his energies elsewhere, but I’m not sure I believe that. I think he’s still angry that his plan didn’t work, that he was unable to join his powers with mine, that he couldn’t use me to break the curse. I don’t know exactly what’s going on. I just feel that somehow he’s behind it.”

Through this whole speech, Connor listened silently. When I was done, he let go of me and stepped back a pace. Even that small separation was enough to cause my heart to miss a beat, telling me the words I’d just spoken were exactly the wrong ones.

Eyes narrowing, he said, “Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds, Angela? You have no proof. None at all. Just a few random facts that barely even connect. So what if Damon was sick and missed a few days of work? He’s the
primus,
but he’s still a regular man. There’s a bad flu going around. Did you stop to think it might just be that?”

“No, but — ”

“And I already told you that we’re not in constant contact, so not hearing from him for a while doesn’t mean all that much, either.”