Smoke on the Water Page 17

  “What was that?” Sebastian asked, eyes closed, lips barely moving.

  Whatever it was, Prudence repeated it every ten minutes. If anyone was in the area, they’d hear it. But wouldn’t most creatures go in the opposite direction from the call of a lone wolf?

  I put my fingers into the hole that Prudence had made in my T-shirt, tearing free a strip all around the bottom, then pressed the cloth to his wound. It turned dark with blood far too quickly. Sebastian wasn’t going to make it through the night.

  I got to my feet. Prudence lifted her head and growled.

  “I have to get help. I should have gone sooner.”

  A twig snapped. My neck got a nasty pain whipping in that direction. My heart got a nasty jolt when I heard a voice, ramped up when I heard more than one, then went even faster at the sight of flashlights bobbing between the trees. Someone was coming. Friend or foe?

  I picked up a big stick, just in case the Pilgrim man had returned with help. Then the wolf yipped, barked, howled again, and the lights bobbed even faster in our direction.

  Two men holding what appeared to be police-quality flashlights emerged from the forest. Both dark haired—one was slim with blue eyes and skin that hinted at an ancestry from places much warmer than this, wherever “this” was. The second was tall and solid, his eyes dark, his hair very short.

  They stopped at the sight of us, but they stared wide-eyed at me. The last man who’d done that had led with his knife. I tightened my grip on the stick and held it up like a Louisville Slugger.

  “Holy hell,” the smaller man said, his voice a lilting combination of the South with an exotic foreign twist.

  “Girls?” called the other man, with no accent at all. “Pru found her.”

  The wolf loped toward the men, but they didn’t appear concerned. She galloped past them and into the trees. Two more lights bobbed like drunken ships in the darkness, then two women joined us. Their expressions went from anxious to stunned to joyful. I’m sure mine was merely stunned. They both looked exactly like me.

  And when I say “exactly,” I mean one had dark hair and dark eyes and the other had red hair and hazel eyes. But other than that … we could be twins.

  I mean triplets.

  “Maybe clones.”

  The women exchanged glances, then the redhead laughed.

  The other one smiled. “It takes some getting used to.”

  “Willow?” Sebastian’s eyes had opened.

  I fell to my knees at his side, took his hand. It was still like ice. His eyes were too bright, his skin too pale.

  “Hey,” I said, and kissed his brow. Clammy. His eyes fell closed again. “Sebastian?”

  No response.

  I lifted my gaze to the others. “I don’t know who you are. Right now I don’t care. We need to get him to a doctor. Cell phone anyone?”

  “Becca?” the dark-haired woman said, and the redhead hurried forward, kneeling at Sebastian’s side and gently pulling back the bloody cloth.

  “You’re a doctor?” I asked.

  “Mmm.”

  I wasn’t sure if the sound was an answer to my question or a comment on the wound. She laid her palm over the still-bleeding slice.

  “Isn’t that un—”

  The word sanitary froze in my throat as a spark of electricity gave an audible zap, then she lifted her hand.

  All that remained was a thin red line.

  Chapter 16

  “How did you do that?” I asked.

  “How do you think?”

  I didn’t know what to say. That had been like—

  “Magic.” The dark-haired woman joined us.

  The two men stayed with the wolf. They held themselves tense and ready, as if they were expecting an attack. When the larger man shifted so his glance could sweep the trees, I saw he was carrying concealed. On second glance, so was the other guy.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “What isn’t?” Becca answered.

  “Raye?” The man with the Southern accent addressed the other woman. “We should probably get out of the open.”

  “Where did you come from?” I demanded.

  The women exchanged glances.

  “Same place as you,” Raye said.

  “I meant tonight.”

  “Oh.” She laughed. “Cabin about a mile to the north.”

  “We aren’t going to be able to carry him that far.”

  “I can walk.” Sebastian’s voice was slurred, and his eyes were still too bright.

  “We’ll help him.” The men’s footsteps crunched over the fallen leaves.

  “I don’t think—” I began.

  “Willow, is it?” the short-haired man asked and I nodded. “I’m Owen. I’ve served multiple tours in Afghanistan and I’ve never left a man behind. Don’t plan to start now.”

  “He’s huge,” I said.

  “Gee, thanks.” Sebastian sat up. He swayed a bit, but he did look better.

  “I can lend a hand,” the other man said. “I’m Bobby Doucet. Raye’s fiancé.”

  This close I saw that not only was he carrying a gun, but he wore a badge. He saw me staring at it. “Chief of Police, New Bergin.”

  “So we’re still in Wisconsin?”

  The two men hoisted Sebastian to his feet.

  “Last time I checked,” Bobby said.

  They started north, the wolf in the lead, and the women fell in step on either side of me.

  Silence reigned for a few seconds, then Becca wondered, “Where did you think you might be?”

  “A better question is: How did you get here in the first place?” Raye asked.

  An even better one … “Who are you?”

  “Your sisters,” Becca said, at the same time Raye blurted, “Witches.”

  “Baby steps, Raye,” Becca muttered.

  Mary had told me that I had sisters; I’d hoped it was true. But having it confirmed—by both words and the sight of them—made me a little bit dizzy. Supposedly everyone had a twin, somewhere, but I didn’t think everyone had a triplet. Except me. Us.

  The word us, the concept of it, warmed me more than it should. I was no longer alone. I had sisters. I nearly hugged them, but it was probably too soon.

  “We don’t have time for baby steps.” Raye cast me a glance. “There are these witch hunters—”

  “The Venatores Mali?”

  “You know about them?” Becca asked.

  “They’re trying to kill me.”

  “Us,” Becca corrected.

  “Witches?”

  “In general, yes,” Raye said. “But the three of us in particular. How much do you know?”

  “I’m not sure since I don’t know how much there is.”

  “Maybe you should start by telling us where you’ve been.” Raye waved a hand from herself to Becca. “We were found abandoned. Me on the interstate, Becca on a grave. You?”

  “Beneath a black willow tree, which is how I became Willow Black.”

  “Original,” Raye said. “And then?”

  “Foster care. You?”

  “Adopted.”

  Becca nodded, which I took to mean she’d been adopted too.

  “You were in foster care all of your life?” Raye asked. “Never adopted?”

  “I saw things in water, then they happened. Freaked everyone out. Got me sent back, every damn time.”

  Raye winced. “I was always afraid I’d be sent back.”

  “Why?”

  “Ghosts speak to me. When I was a kid, I didn’t know that I shouldn’t answer them.”

  “I can understand where that might cause a problem.” I switched my gaze to Becca. “What about you?”

  “I can talk to the animals.”

  “Isn’t that a song?”

  “Mmm,” she said again. “It was cute when I was three, not so much as time went on.”

  “Seeing things in the water was never cute. Once I understood it was bizarre, I tried to hide it, but I didn’t have much
luck. Then I tried to make the visions stop.”

  “How?”

  “Drinking, pills, and…” I pantomimed smoking a joint, then sniffed a line off my index finger. From their expressions, they got the drift.

  I don’t know why I was telling virtual strangers about my past. Maybe because they not only didn’t look like strangers, they didn’t feel like strangers either. There’d been a connection between us from the instant we’d met. Loony? Maybe. But there it was.

  “Did it help?” Raye asked.

  I shook my head. “Alcohol and nonmedical pharmaceuticals tend to make visions worse, not better. I stopped but it was too late. I was already on the crazy train.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Becca said.

  “Saying I had visions, having them come true, the drugs, the fugue states created a pattern of behavior. I’ve been in the Northern Wisconsin Mental Health Facility for a while now.”

  “Being a little off doesn’t land you there,” Becca said. “Usually trying to kill someone, or actually doing it, does. Which one are you?”

  “Tried. Failed.”

  “Who? Why?”

  “Guy with a knife and a ring, some gasoline and a lighter.”

  “Venatores Mali,” Raye whispered.

  “I didn’t know that at the time. I saw him in a vision, then when I saw him for real, I stabbed him.”

  “Sounds like self-defense,” Becca said.

  “It would have been if he’d actually had the knife, or even the ring, on him. But he didn’t. After that, any explanation I gave got me more antipsychotics. The medical pharmaceuticals didn’t help either.”

  Raye and Becca took my hand on either side, and it felt so right that I let them.

  “We tried to find you,” Raye said.

  “How long have you known about this, about us?”

  “Less than a month maybe?” Raye glanced at Becca who gave a nod-shrug. “I did a location spell to find you, but I didn’t see anything.”

  “Do you know why it didn’t work?”

  “I’m new at the craft. Kind of fumbling along. I did read that a spell of protection might prevent location. Did you do one?”

  “Not me. My caseworker at the facility practiced Wicca. She showed us a few things. A friend of mine was concerned about safety so Peggy did a protection spell.”

  “Peggy Dalberg?” Becca asked. Before I could answer she continued, “Your friend— What’s her name?”

  “Mary.”

  “McAllister?”

  “How’d you know?” I repeated.

  “I’m engaged to her son.” Becca pointed at the former soldier, who was practically carrying Sebastian now.

  “Owen,” I said. He’d told me that, but I hadn’t been thinking about anything but Sebastian, and what were the odds I’d meet the Owen, Mary’s Owen, in the middle of Godforsaken, USA?

  “I saw her,” I blurted. “And you, Becca, and—” I shook my head. “She was at a house, her house.” I squinted trying to see it again. “She had a knife. Did she hurt someone? Is she all right?” My voice wavered.

  Becca’s fingers tightened on mine. “She didn’t hurt anyone.”

  My sisters’ eyes met, and I realized they’d only answered the first question.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Mary gave her life trying to save mine,” Becca said.

  My eyes burned. Tears spilled. “She was my only friend.”

  Silence descended as I tried to control my grief. My chest hurt. My throat too. This was all my fault.

  “I didn’t think Mary had friends,” Becca continued. “I’m glad she had you.”

  “With me she was better.” And now she’d never be better again. “I got her killed.”

  “No.” Raye squeezed my hand. “The Venatores Mali are responsible, not you.”

  “She’d have been safe if I hadn’t sent her after them.”

  “We’re almost to the cabin.” Raye pointed at a light playing hide-and-seek with the trees. “We’ve got wine and food and a fireplace. We’ll get your guy settled, and then you can explain how, exactly, you sent her.”

  “He’s not my guy.” And I had to keep it that way.

  “Who is he?” Becca asked.

  “The administrator of the mental health facility.”

  “You know who the girl is?” Raye asked.

  “What girl?”

  “He’s got a ghost.” She kept her gaze on Sebastian. “Never leaves his side.”

  *

  Sebastian heard the women talking behind them, but not what they said. Especially once the men started asking him questions.

  At first just the basics—name, occupation. Then they moved on to the specifics.

  “Who stabbed you?” This from Bobby, the police chief.

  “Guy came out of the woods. Took one glance at Willow…”

  Another of you!

  “He seemed to know her. Maybe he’s seen the other two.”

  “Maybe,” Owen agreed. “Did you get in the way?”

  “In the way?” Sebastian echoed.

  “If he knew Willow, wouldn’t he be more inclined to stab her than you?”

  “Why stab anyone?”

  “What did this guy look like?” Bobby again—typical cop question.

  “Dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes. He seemed to be on his way to a dress-up Thanksgiving party. Except for the knife.”

  The two men exchanged glances.

  “Did he have a black hat and talk like an escapee from the set of Braveheart?” Owen asked.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Roland,” Bobby said.

  “McHugh?” Sebastian blurted.

  “How’d you know?” Bobby demanded.

  “Long story. Lots of patient privacy issues involved. Although I have to wonder why you think a centuries-dead witch hunter stabbed me.”

  “Because he did?” Owen said.

  “All righty then,” Sebastian muttered.

  “You should probably tell us exactly what happened and everything the guy said.”

  As a police chief was asking, Sebastian did his best. But he had no answer for how they’d gotten into the woods in the first place beyond shared psychosis, and he thought he’d keep that to himself.

  “Roland thinks Becca is still dead,” Owen murmured.

  “Still?”

  The man waved a hand, dismissing what Sebastian thought was a very reasonable question. Of course, reason was in short supply around here, considering they believed the man who’d stabbed Sebastian was the Roland McHugh.

  Sebastian could understand that there might be a group of witch hunters who’d taken the name of the old one, along with their mission statement. He could even see someone appropriating the name of the group’s originator. But that didn’t make him the actual originator. Nothing could.

  They reached their destination at last—a log cabin in the center of a clearing. Sebastian still felt weak. Blood loss will do that. But he didn’t feel worse, and considering how far they’d walked, he should. He didn’t remember who’d bandaged him, but whoever it had been they’d done a great job. As far as he could tell there wasn’t any fresh bleeding. Maybe the injury wasn’t as bad as it had appeared with only the moon for light.

  The cabin was spacious and modern on the inside, falsely rustic on the outside. From the unpacked luggage and grocery bags, the two couples had recently arrived.

  They deposited Sebastian on the couch. The wolf, which had walked right inside like the family dog, curled on the rug in front of the fireplace. Owen began to lay a fire.

  Willow hurried to Sebastian’s side. “You want to lie down?”

  “Here?” He’d take up the whole couch.

  “You can have the far bedroom.” Raye pointed. “There are two empty, but that’s the biggest. The smaller bed isn’t made up either.”

  “I should probably get back to the facility.” The place had to be in chaos.

  “Not tonight,”
Willow said. “You should rest.”

  Because he was tired, and a coward—how would he explain disappearing from the facility with a patient?—he agreed. But he didn’t go to the bedroom. He wanted to hear what they said. He’d go in a minute, then he’d examine his wound too. Right now his head was too heavy to do anything but sit on the couch and watch Owen light a fire.

  Bobby poured wine for the girls, grabbed a few beers for the boys—Sebastian declined, he was dizzy enough—while Becca and Raye made sandwiches. Eventually everyone had a drink, some food, and a seat. Raye started the story; Becca chimed in. Every so often, Bobby and Owen would add a line or two. Sebastian felt as if he were listening to a fairy tale, but they all believed it was true.

  Once upon a time in seventeenth-century Scotland, there lived two witches—Henry and Prudence Taggart.

  Sebastian eyed Prudence the wolf. She eyed him back. In fact, those eerie, green, not at all wolflike eyes rarely left him—or maybe she was staring at Willow, who didn’t leave him either.

  Prudence was a healer, a midwife. She was very, very good. Supernaturally good. Unfortunately, some things cannot be healed even with such powers. One of Pru’s patients died in childbirth along with her child. That Pru was delivered of three healthy girls soon after created suspicion. That the dead woman and child belonged to the chief witch hunter of King James led to a great big pyre.

  Her husband, Henry, a powerful witch in his own right, had seen this coming and prepared. He knew that running was not an option with three infants. Pru’s powers were significantly drained by the births. So he did the only thing he could do.

  Blood magic.

  “It’s the most powerful kind.” Becca, Raye, and Willow said the words as one. Which was almost as creepy as the story and the way the girls told it—like they were detailing personal history and not fiction.

  As the flames took their lives, Henry cast a spell to transport their daughters to a time where no one believed in witches anymore. The triplets disappeared, never to be found again.

  “Until now,” Raye said.

  “I saw that.” Willow licked her lips. “The pyre. The babies. The black-clad zealots. One of them—I couldn’t see his face—branded the man and the woman with his ring.”

  “The brand remains after death.” Becca ruffled her fingers through the wolf’s black fur, revealing a circle of white at the neck. “Henry’s got it too, even in ghost form.”