The Void (Witching Savannah Book 3) (15 page)

NINETEEN

I’m sure the anchors would have counted themselves as lucky. Even though Gudrun had broken out of her dimensional prison and was once again free to wreak havoc on our world, from their vantage, Gudrun’s escape had so far been bloodless. Of course, they wouldn’t count the scavengers Gudrun had turned to ash. Nor would they overly concern themselves with the losses to my family.

I sat alone at the kitchen table, watching an easy rain fall on Savannah and painting my nails a demure pink. Seemed as good a shade as any for a funeral. Rather than the jagged grief I would have expected to descend on me, I just felt numb. I couldn’t really comprehend that Peter’s parents were both gone. Murdered by my own half brother.

I should have realized how vulnerable the Tierneys had been. Done something more than weave a few protection spells against a magical attack. I should have realized that if those who wished us harm were prevented from attacking using magic, they would rely on everyday violence.

Colin had died directly at Josef’s hands, or should that be claws. Josef was a skin-walker. He had chosen to make his attack in lupine rather than human form. A wolf capable of human treachery. The thought made me shudder.

Josef hadn’t touched Claire. She had succumbed to a beam that fell in during the explosion. Peter had carried her lifeless body as far as he could before giving in to smoke inhalation. He broke his arm in the fall and was concussed by debris dropping from the Tierneys’ apartment on the floor above the bar.

Part of my mind kept telling me that there was no way any of this could be real. That soon, I’d wake up and realize it had only been a nightmare. But the world around me kept moving.

I blew on my nails to help dry the lacquer, then reached for my chamomile tea. The heat of the cup warmed my right hand, while the fingers of my left hand examined the cool smoothness of my best pearls. White pearls, black maternity shift dress. My feet were too swollen even for my flats: early onset swelling, another perk of my unconventional pregnancy. At least I finally had a practical use for my worthless magic: I’d spell them into fitting.

I’d have to go up soon and rouse Peter. He had barely left our room for three days now. He hadn’t shaved or showered. Iris had done her best to see Peter was fed, cooking all his favorites and stopping just short of spoon-feeding him herself. Oliver had tried both drinking with him and leaving him to drink alone. Peter wouldn’t even let Ellen come near him. She wanted to heal his arm; he said he needed to feel the pain. Me, he was barely even talking to.

He didn’t want to blame me, of that I was sure, but how could he not? He’d look around me rather than at me. I spent what seemed like days on my knees, begging my husband to turn toward me in his pain and not away. He didn’t want to talk. He blamed me for his parents’ death, and honestly, I blamed myself too. I set my mug on the table and applied polish to the fingers of the other hand.

I studied the back of my hand as the fresh lacquer dried, making a connection between the number of fingers and the five deaths my family had endured in six months. I counted Ginny in that number, because part of me said I had to. I included Jilo, and even Tucker, because my heart told me it was true. I certainly did not count Connor or Teague.

Nor did I include my mother.

The uniformed officer at the site of the fire, the one who had been so anxious to catch Adam’s attention, had found Emily’s head in a satin-lined chest outside the ruins of Magh Meall. Why Josef had turned against her we might never know. She had chosen to align herself with a sociopath, undoubtedly believing she could control him, certainly never suspecting that his violence might one day be turned against her. Josef had aligned himself with Gudrun, and this alliance had proven deadly to my mother.

“The burning bodies, the last sephira,” Maisie whispered when Adam revealed the find to us. Emily’s dismembered parts, a nightmarish jigsaw, were being held at the medical examiner’s office under the name “Jane Doe 42.” We had not stepped forward, nor did we plan on stepping forward, to claim her. As far as the world was concerned, Emily Taylor had been dead for more than two decades. I for one was more than happy to have them go on thinking that.

At first I was certain this was just another of her tricks. She had the power to create doppelgängers of herself and send them out into the world to carry out her subterfuge. I myself had witnessed one of them being impaled with a shard of glass from a crumbling dome. But Iris and Oliver visited the morgue and worked a spell capable of disintegrating anything created using magic. The spell had no effect; the parts that had been strewn over Savannah proved to be of organic, not magical, origin. It was indeed my mother’s body.

It was so confusing. All along I had feared Emily had been the one behind the spell; I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact she had been the sacrifice that would allow Gudrun to free herself and wage a new war against the line. None of this made any sense. Had her murder been a punishment for failing to entrap me with Tillandsia, or had she given herself willingly to the cause of destroying the line? Maybe the truth lay somewhere between these possibilities. Perhaps she had no choice about dying, but she’d been allowed to go about it in a way that took the most from me?

Yes, even with her head in a box, my gut told me Emily had machinated the attack against Colin and Claire as a way to punish me for siding against her and her insane scheme to bring down the line. Unlike Gudrun, Emily had never been one to risk a full-on frontal assault. Her preferred method of war was to wear away at the edges and sow seeds of uncertainty and doubt. She removed the people who were important to you, eating away at any sense of security and doing whatever she could to unsettle you. It was so like her to attack on the periphery, even as a parting shot.

The purpose of the spell for which Emily was sacrificed was now evident, even if the workings behind it remained unclear to me. Gudrun had freed herself from the dimension that had held her since the end of World War II. I knew it was too much to hope that Gudrun intended to escape to my great-grandmother Maria’s Aldebaran Aryan paradise. Now that she had freed herself, and returned to our world, I knew Gudrun’s ultimate goal would be finally to bring about an end to the line. Common supposition held that if she succeeded in falling the line, the old ones would reward her, and reward her well. She would probably end up the queen of us all.

The other anchors were holding emergency summits. The united families were preparing for war. My family and I had been excused from participation as we were considered part of the problem, not the solution. The fact that my paternal great-grandmother had helped Gudrun orchestrate a world war didn’t help me when it came to being considered guilty through association.

Witches around the world now shared a common opinion about me. I was indeed the Scarlet Woman of prophecy, the witch who would cause the line to fall. The only surprise for them was that I had never intentionally tried to harm the line. They saw my attempts to save my family and my hometown as immature, impulsive, hardheaded, and selfish. They agreed it would prove to be my numerous character flaws rather than any intentional evil that would bring about the end of the world. That opinion had developed as the general consensus even with Oliver handling my PR. I halfway expected an inquisition to arrive on our doorstep at any given minute. Probably the only thing standing between me and that fate was that every witch in the world whose last name wasn’t Taylor was terrified of me, due in part to my uncle’s efforts. When he realized he couldn’t inspire loyal support for me, he decided abject terror of me might prove our next best hope. “Just until things blow over,” he had said to me with a confident, if unconvincing, smile.

Truth was I couldn’t give a damn what the other witches thought of me. I’d been on the outside of magic my entire life, one way or another. I didn’t care about them. I could count the people I loved, truly loved, on my fingers, and now I’d lost two more of them. Maybe three. I didn’t know if Peter would ever recover emotionally, if he could ever forgive me for what my mother and brother had done. Intellectually he knew the fault didn’t lie with me; emotionally he knew his parents would still be alive if he had never laid eyes on me.

Emily had kept at least one promise to me. She had taken the truth regarding Peter’s Fae origin to the grave. Still, even though she had kept her word regarding not alerting Peter to his true nature, Emily had certainly driven a huge and splintered wedge between us. Peter had shut me out, and the only other woman on earth who might have been able to tell me how to reach him, well, we were burying her charred remains alongside all that could be found of her husband in Laurel Grove in about three hours.

Perhaps if Abigail were still around, she might have found a way to help ease his emotional pain, take the edge off a bit, like she had done for Maisie early on in her healing process. No, I realized, I would have turned any such offer down. I wouldn’t feel right about going behind his back. Besides, what with the whiskey he’d been downing, that edge should be pretty blunted already.

“Arson Turns Deadly” was the headline of the newspaper the day after the fire. The article noted that even though the cause of the fire was still under investigation, a police spokesman confirmed that evidence of an accelerant had been found. The paper made no mention of the discovery of the silk-lined box. The department had decided to keep that quiet until identification had been made.

Still, people talk, and when allegations that the Tierneys might have set the fire themselves began to surface, Adam attempted to have himself recused from the case. To me he had confessed, “It pisses me off more than you can begin to imagine that I know who was behind this, but I can’t do anything about it. I can’t just walk in and tell the chief that the fire was an exercise in magical correspondences.” Since Adam couldn’t admit the link between my family and the dismembered corpse, his request to be removed from the case had been denied. The official reason given was it would eat up too much valuable time getting another detective up to full speed. The real reason was that Adam’s superiors had hoped it would put a fire in his belly; now it had all turned personal for him due, of all things, to his relationship with my uncle.

Adam insisted that all rumors be squelched by informing the press that the Tierneys had been victims of an as yet unidentified assailant, and that neither Peter nor his parents had anything to do with setting the deadly fire. Seeing his parents’ names cleared seemed to help Peter. A little at least. But not for long. He fell quickly back into a dark and unreachable chasm. I took another sip of tea and steeled myself before going upstairs to wake him.

I felt a tingle, a vibration I had come to associate with Maisie. I turned to face her before she could even physically enter the room. She looked like a lovely librarian, all done up in understated mourning garb.

“I hope it’s all right,” she said softly, creeping up to me as if she were afraid the slightest noise would cause me to take flight. “I loved Claire and Colin. I want to say good-bye to them. Please say I can come.”

I held my hand out toward her, and she came and clutched it between hers. “If you feel you are ready to face the world, I wouldn’t dream of saying no.” Then a discomforting thought hit me. “Stay out of Peter’s line of sight, though, okay? He’s not himself lately.”

TWENTY

The rain had stopped, and though the air still felt chilly, a few rays of light reached out from behind the dissipating clouds. Claire and Colin had been beloved fixtures in Savannah, and even though not everyone from the church had followed us to the cemetery, still mourners stood in concentric circles eight deep around the open graves where Peter’s parents were to find their final rest. Maisie did her best to remain unobtrusive at the outer edge of the gathering.

I watched Iris’s eyes scan the crowd, reaching further and further back all the way across the cemetery to its entrance. I knew she was on the lookout for Sam, hoping he might decide to join us. She had phoned him, and left him a message with the time and place. Still, if he hadn’t made it to the church, I doubted he’d show up here, but I didn’t have the heart to strip Iris of hope. Sam might not have shared the common aversion to witches, but having your body taken over by a boo hag could push anyone over the edge. Iris felt the weight of my stare, and her eyes met mine. “You got to be tough to love a Taylor,” she said reaching out and patting my hand. “Guess our Sam just wasn’t tough enough.”

I wondered if Peter would, in the end, prove tough enough. His buddies had pulled him aside. They encircled him, and I felt sure they were carrying on an abbreviated graveside wake. Oliver had followed to watch over Peter, hopefully limiting Peter’s alcohol intake rather than facilitating it. I would have felt better if Adam too had been on hand; he had no magic, but he was a rock. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt where his allegiance lay, a certainty that felt like a near luxury in recent days. Sadly it was starting to look like his job would make him miss the entire gathering. I could only catch glimpses of Peter through the wall of friends surrounding him. I strained my eyes and willed the crowd to part.

“I hope it isn’t inappropriate for me to have come.” A voice broke through my intention and pulled me back to the present. I looked up to see Jessamine standing a bit off to my side. She had come close enough for us to hear her, but held cautiously back. “Listen, I know this is neither the time nor the place for a discussion, but”—she reached up, self-consciously patting her auburn hair—“I’m going home today. I fly out this afternoon.” She looked away from me to Iris. “I know you know . . . about me. Who I am. When we touched, I saw it in your eyes.” Her eyes fell back to mine. “I heard about all . . . this. I just wanted to offer my condolences. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”

I reached up quickly and caught her arm. “Why did you come? Not today. I mean before.”

Jessamine began to speak, then thought better of it. She pursed her lips. Finally she seemed to find her words. “I felt that Jilo had betrayed us. When I learned she had befriended you, I couldn’t believe it. I had to meet you all.” A cloud passed over the sun, and I saw tiny goose bumps prickle her flesh. “I was sure I would hate you.” She rubbed her hand over the exposed skin. “I wanted to hate you. I had grown up believing you were monsters, but seeing you in the flesh, I . . .” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I realized you were no more responsible for my grandfather’s desertion than I was. I saw you were just . . . well, not ordinary people, but certainly not fiends. It made me wonder if my family had not been the lucky ones.” Her eyes swept over the open graves. “All this magic doesn’t seem to bring you happiness.” Her voice trailed off, then she grew flustered. “I’m sorry. I have no right being here, talking like this to you. Especially now. I’ll go.”

“Please stay.” The words came to me by reflex. Jessamine seemed hesitant. Her mouth puckered slightly, and she leaned back away from me.

“Please,” Iris added, and Ellen shifted over a seat so Jessamine could sit between them. Jessamine flashed me one last uncertain look, but then took the seat between her aunts. I knew Iris regretted having jumped to conclusions about Jessamine being involved in all of this. Her desire to blame Jessamine had come from a place of pain, a deep disappointment at having the false image of her father toppled. I sensed she had come to realize this with both mind and spirit, and was glad to have a chance to set things right with her unexpected niece.

Ellen, who had been hiding her red eyes behind the nearly impenetrable black lenses of her sunglasses, pulled the glasses off and put them on her head. “We have siblings we’ve never met,” she said as if the idea had finally hit home. Perhaps emotionally it just had.

“Yes, a sister and a brother, my dad.” Jessamine glanced over at me. “And you have other cousins too.”

Iris reached out gingerly, and placed her hand over Jessamine’s. “The circumstances that led to our meeting were”—she looked for a precise term, but seemed to settle—“
unfortunate
. I hope we can try this again. When all this is behind us, that is.”

Jessamine stared dead ahead, saying nothing. Then she nodded and turned toward Iris. “I cannot speak for my family, but yes, I think I would like that.”

The priest cleared his throat, causing a silence to ripple out from a circle where he stood as the center. Peter’s friends scattered slowly, and I saw Oliver maneuvering Peter in our direction. Peter was speaking, and Oliver responded by nodding silently. If Oliver was surprised by Jessamine’s presence, he gave no sign. I wasn’t sure the new arrival had even registered with my husband.

Those gathered tightened the circle around us. The scattering of white wooden folding chairs could not begin to meet the demands of all the mourners gathered at the grave, so many were left to stand shifting from foot to foot, some leaning one against the other for support. I was glad I wouldn’t need to stand, but the sight of the white chairs reminded me of my wedding not so many weeks ago.

It had been such a short time since Peter and I had made our vows to each other. Still, it felt like many lifetimes had passed since then. I could barely recognize the man who stood at my side.

He looked uncomfortable in his new dark suit. The only other suit he owned, he’d been wearing since high school, and the pants no longer held quite the same color as the coat. There had been no thought of getting Peter to a haberdashery. He’d barely even gotten out of bed since the fire. Oliver took the size from the old suit and eyeballed the necessary alterations. The slim cut of the jacket would be perfect once Peter’s cast was removed. For now it hung over his shoulders, and he looked for all the world as if he might shrug it off. The way he continued to look past me made me wonder if he wouldn’t rather shrug me off too.

I reached up and grabbed his hand. Peter looked down at me, and for a moment, just a moment, I saw a tenderness in his eyes. The moment passed as the priest began to speak. I wished I could have held his gaze even a second longer. A shudder went through me, and along with it a presentiment he would never look at me that way again. Peter held on to my hand, but looked away. I could tell he wasn’t focusing on the priest’s words. His eyes continued to scan the horizon, as if he were expecting an arrival.

“In sure and certain hope of resurrection.” The words pierced my consciousness, drawing my gaze back to the twin AstroTurf-bordered openings at my feet. Something about the phrase struck me. The resurrection wasn’t guaranteed; the only thing that was sure and certain was the hope. As the thought crossed my mind, Iris, who was sitting on my right, reached over and pulled my head against her shoulder. I let it rest there, happy to close my eyes and let the peekaboo sun warm me.

Peter’s grasp on my hand tightened, and a charge of tension pulsated through the connection. I sat up and turned toward my husband. His face wore an anxious expression, his forehead bunched up to form creases. A bead of sweat trickled from his temple. He seemed to sense something at the edge of the cemetery. His eyes scanned the bushes at its boundary. I let my gaze follow his. I couldn’t see anyone, but I, too, could sense an uninvited guest. I touched Iris’s shoulder, pointing toward the spot where my instincts told me the interloper waited. Iris craned her head forward and narrowed her eyes to focus on the spot, only to look back at me and shake her head. She raised her eyebrows and gave her shoulders a slight shrug. She could sense nothing.

Peter turned to face me, and as he did, the beautiful mismatched color of his eyes changed to pools of mercury, the silver betraying his Fae blood. I wasn’t sure if this change would be evident to anyone else, or if it was my witch blood that allowed me to see it.

“Do you hear that?” He voiced his question loudly, drowning out the priest’s final petition. “They’re laughing.” He dropped my hand, his own anomalous glee leading him to echo the sound of the laughter he heard.

The priest stopped in midstream. “Of course, they are home with the Lord,” he said, either misinterpreting Peter’s words or willfully covering what he had interpreted as a psychotic break. The priest granted us a beatific smile, then rushed to the prayer’s conclusion. He had moved too slowly, though. Peter had already dropped my hand and bolted, breaking through the assembly like he’d been called in a game of red rover.

“I got this,” Oliver announced. “Peter, come back,” he called after Peter in a tone that made it clear to those of us who were familiar with Oliver’s magic this was not a simple request; it resounded with his tried-and-true power to compel others to do as he wished. Oliver turned toward us, flummoxed when Peter carried on, ignoring his command.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Iris said, “follow him.”

“I am not wearing the right shoes for this,” Oliver said, shaking his head. Then he went off, bobbing and weaving his way through the mourners who had, at least for the moment, all but forgotten Claire and Colin as they turned as one to follow my disappearing husband with their eyes.

“Peter,” I called out after him, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow. He carried on in a straight and singular line, leaping over the gravestones that had lined up between him and his goal, a goal I couldn’t even see.