Heat of the Moment (35 page)

“Cleanup crew?” I repeated.

“The J
ä
ger-Suchers have a whole division to make stuff like this go away,” Cassandra said.

“What about Owen's mom?” Franklin asked.

“What about my mom?”

Everyone exchanged glances.

“He doesn't know?” I asked.

“Know?” Owen echoed.

I tightened my fingers around his. “Come with me.”

Mary lay where she'd fallen, at the edge of the trees, the long, mossy grass all around. Considering what had been going on near the cliff, I understood why Owen hadn't seen her.

“I'm sorry.”

He picked up the butcher knife that lay a few feet away from her outstretched hand.

“I think she was trying to save me. She was definitely trying to kill Deb.”

Owen went to his knees and took her hand. “She never meant to kill a witch. She was after the witch hunters.”

“I think so.”

“She was on our side.”

Our side. His. Mine. Us.

“Yes.”

“Maybe she's finally at peace.”

I hadn't seen her in that gloomy room. I'd like to believe she'd already gone into the light. Why wouldn't she? If Henry hadn't been there waiting for me, I would have.

“Raye?”

My sister, who had been whispering sweet nothings to her fianc
é
, looked up.

I indicated Mary. “Is she … around?”

Raye's gaze swept the clearing, then she shook her head. Owen's shoulders sagged, and I set my hand on one of them.

“Owen?” Franklin was there. “What do you want me to do about your mom?”

“What are my choices?”

“I could have her taken elsewhere and found, then you could move on from there with a service and burial.”

“Or?”

“She could disappear.”

Owen remained silent another moment, then he patted his mother's arm and stood. “Make her disappear.”

“You're sure?” I asked. “What if you want a place to visit?”

“She wouldn't be there any more than she was here my whole life.” He lifted a hand. “I know she couldn't help it. She was sick. But it'll be easier all around if she's just … gone.”

“Got it.” Franklin returned to the others, who waited near Bobby's car.

There was one more person here than there should be—a man all in black, with his hand on the head of the sleek dark wolf.

I could see Henry.

I hurried over, Owen in my wake, just in time to hear Henry demand, “What did you do?”

“I summoned you,” Raye said. “But Becca came too. She healed herself. All's well.”

“Not exactly. Show me what you did.”

Raye led him to the candles, spread her hands.

“What about the sage?” he asked.

Leaning down, Raye picked up the green stick that lay in the center of the star.

“You didn't light it.”

Raye stilled. “Shit.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Burning the sage keeps evil spirits from getting out too,” Henry answered.

I remembered Henry with his hands around Roland's neck, my hand around Henry's arm.

And Roland's smile.

“Where is Roland?” I asked.

“Wait a second.” Raye glanced back and forth between Henry and me. “You can hear him?”

“See him too. Must have been when I was you and you were me and—” I flapped my hand. “More importantly, Roland. Where?”

Henry shook his head. “Haven't got a clue.”

“How?” Raye asked. “He needed worthy believers.”

“He had them,” I said. “They chanted, skyclad, beneath the moon, which was freakishly up in the daylight.”

“He didn't get out the last time.”

“Last time there wasn't a sacrifice. You didn't die. I did.”

“Are you sure he's out?” Raye asked.

From the direction of Three Harbors a siren wailed. Pru began to howl. We went to the edge of the cliff and peered west. There was one helluva fire in town.

Henry, Raye, and I exchanged glances.

“He's out,” I said.

 

Epilogue

Edward's minions made it look like my clinic went up in flames because of a gas leak. The man has amazing minions. They came, they saw, they explained away every damn thing.

We arrived in time to see that the fire had been started from a pile of wood around a single wooden stake. A pyre built just the way the
Venatores Mali
liked them.

Joaquin stood across the street, herding cats—literally. After canceling my appointments, he'd hung around in case we had any walk-ins. Luckily he'd smelled the fire, called it in, then opened the cages in the kennel and let all the residents out.

Though the building was a loss—Roland McHugh made a damn good fire that burned hot and fast—the animals were saved. Joaquin was a hero. I gave him permission to dole out the poor homeless fur babies to several giggling girls who'd gathered around. From the admiring gazes cast his way, Joaquin wasn't going to go friendless, or dateless, much longer.

Owen, me, Reggie—as well as Grenade—slept that night at the cottages. So did Cassandra, Franklin, Raye, Bobby, and my parents. My birth parents.

Took some fancy talking by Franklin to get Kyle to agree to let Pru sleep inside. But he did. I'm sure the fed had to pay plenty. Kyle isn't the kind to care about a shiny FBI badge.

But we can't stay in Three Harbors. We have to go where no one knows us. Now that Roland's free, and he's discovered matches, no one and nothing is safe.

I spoke with my other parents. Told them I'd be leaving for a while. I hope that by the time I come back, I've figured out what to say to them. Maybe nothing beyond
thank you.
They might have lied, but they loved me; they protected me and accepted me. I always knew something was off, but only someone like me, with supernatural abilities, would have.

Though possessing Raye was weird for both of us, the exchange accomplished one important thing. I can see Henry and Raye can hear Pru. So far just them—no extra ghosts for me, no whispers from Fido for her. I kind of hope it stays that way. I have enough voices in my head already and so does she.

The morning after, I woke in Owen's arms. The sun slanting through the window told me we'd slept half the morning away. I wasn't surprised. After dying, rising, watching my livelihood burn, we'd come back here and proved we were alive the best way we knew how.

Reggie and Grenade lay on the couch all curled together. Neither one of them even lifted their heads as I sat up. The sun lit Owen's sleeping face, revealing every line that he'd earned. I drew back the sheet then placed my palm on the thin white line that still marred his thigh. One more dose ought to do it.

The spark woke him. He slapped his hand atop mine. “What are you doing?”

“You're good as new.”

“Okay.” He sat up, leaned over, kissed me quick. “Thanks.”

“You can go back now.”

“Back?” he echoed as if I were speaking in tongues.

“To the Marines.”

He snorted. “Right.”

“You said if you don't do your job, people die.”

“If I leave, you might die. I can't risk that. The only people I care about, Becca, is you.”

“But—”

“You think I don't know what you're doing? You're trying to get me out of harm's way.”

“In Afghanistan?”

“Probably safer.”

Definitely safer. “You should—” I began.

“Marry you. I know.”

“Wait. What?”

“I'm not leaving you again. Ever. So we should probably get married. Okay?” he asked.

“What about Reggie?”

“He can get his own girl. I think he kind of likes your mom.”

I thought he kind of liked her too, but—

“She's only got eyes for Henry.”

“Poor guy.” Owen sighed. “Reggie's going to have to go back.”

“Why?”

“He belongs to the Marines. He was trained to sniff bombs. He's really, really good at it, and it's what he loves to do.”

“He'll miss you.”

And Pru. But right now it was probably best if Reggie was gone so that he stopped growling at corners after magazines smacked him on the nose of their own accord. People would start to talk. Which would cause any
Venatores Mali
that might be lurking about to become suspicious. We needed to keep a low profile.

“I'll miss him too,” Owen said. “I'll put in a request; when he's retired, he can live with us.”

“Maybe by then this will all be over.”

Owen lay back and pulled me against his chest. “Once it is over, we can come back to Three Harbors.”

“We don't have to.”

“I don't mind, and I think there's a couple people here who would be great to work with.”

“Doing what?”

“Breeding, raising, and training MWDs.”

“That would be great!”

“Billy knows a lot about dog breeding.”

“Billy the prophet? He does.”

“And that kid who works for you … Joaquin—”

“He doesn't any more.” Mainly because my clinic was rubble, not to mention we were going on the road. Joaquin had agreed to take Grenade—at least until we got back.

“Then he'll be glad for a job.”

“How long do you think it's going to take us to end this?”

“No idea, but we'll do it. Together. You, me, the others.” His arm tightened around me. “Roland isn't going to know what hit him.”

I was glad Owen was confident. I was nervous. Two untutored witches, a ghost, and a wolf against an ancient evil witch hunter and countless serial-killing cronies. Even with the FBI, a voodoo priestess, and whatever Edward was—

“The odds suck.”

“Not once we find your third sister.”

“How are we going to do that?”

A knock came at the door.

“Better put on some clothes,” Owen said. “I called a meeting. First order of business, a plan to find that sister. Second order of business—figuring out what those mean.”

He pointed at the athame with the wolf head carved into the handle, which lay on the kitchen table next to the necklace we'd found around Mistress June's neck. A pentacle similar to the one Raye wore, which according to Raye had been taken from one of the witches June had killed in New Bergin. We had no idea why.

However, when we'd put the athame, the pentacle, and Raye's wand on the same table, the legs had begun to vibrate so hard we'd been afraid the thing might self-combust. Raye had snatched up her wand; the table had stilled, and she had taken the wand with her when she went back to her own room.

The knock came again. I leaped out of bed and grabbed the nearest pair of pants. Owen did the same.

“And here I was afraid you'd miss the Marines, that you'd need more than … this.”

I tugged a T-shirt over my head, and when my face popped out, Owen stood right in front of me. He drew me close and set his forehead against mine.

“All I need is you,” he whispered, and when he kissed me I knew that he was right.

 

Read on for an excerpt from the next book in
Lori Handeland
's Sisters of the Craft series

Smoke on the Water

Available August 2015 from St. Martin's Paperbacks

 

 

 

Chapter 1

“Do I know you?”

I glanced up from the book I wasn't reading to find one of the inmates—I mean patients—of the Northern Wisconsin Mental Health Facility hovering at the edge of my personal space. In a place like this, people learn quickly not to get too close to anyone without warning them first. Bad things happen, and they happen quickly.

“I'm Willow,” I said. “Willow Black. But I don't think we've met.”

I'd seen the woman around. The others called her “Crazy Mary,” which was very pot/kettle in my opinion, but no one had asked me. She was heroin addict skinny. I gathered she'd done a lot of “self-medicating” on the outside. A lot of nutty people did. When you saw things, heard things that no one else did, you'd think you'd be more inclined
not
to take drugs that might make you see and hear more. The opposite was true. Trust me.

“Mary McAllister.” She shuffled her feet, glanced at the empty chair next to me, and I nodded. She scurried over, sat, smiled.

She still had all of her teeth, which was an accomplishment around here. I had mine, sure, but I was only twenty-seven. Mary had to be … it was hard to say. I'd take a stab and guess between thirty and sixty. Give or take a few years.

Mary looked good today. Or as good as she got. Her long, wavy graying hair had been brushed free of tangles. She'd had a shower recently, but she still wore the tan jumpsuit issued to problem patients. The more you behaved like a human being, the more you were allowed to dress like one. I, myself, was wearing hot pink scrub pants and a white T-shirt that read NWMHF, which placed me somewhere between Mary's solitary confinement jumpsuit and the jeans and Green Bay Packer designer-wear of the majority of the visitors. Not that I ever had any visitors, but I'd observed others.

Mary had been incarcerated a while. The powers that be didn't like to call us “incarcerated,” but a spade was a spade in my opinion, and if you couldn't waltz out the front door whenever you wanted to, I considered that “incarcerated.” Mary spent a lot of time either doped into zombie-ville or locked away from everyone else. She was schizophrenic, but around here that was more the norm than not. Sadly, Mary was on the violent side of the spectrum—hence the doping and the locking away.

“Willow.” She rubbed her head. “I don't think that's right.”

“What isn't right?”

“Your name isn't Willow.”

“It is.”

“No!” The word was too loud. She hunched her shoulders, glanced around to make sure none of the orderlies were headed our way. None were.