Heart of the Witch (10 page)

In Ravyn's mind, she saw the face of the killer. She gripped her dagger in her hand… felt flesh give way as she thrust it into his heart. A hitching breath escaped her throat, and her head snapped up. The athame was symbolic, used only in rituals. Never was it to be used for any type of cutting, let alone to harm another being. She quickly looked around to see if the others had heard her gasp. Her face flushed with shame.

The others hadn't seemed to notice. In unison, they repeated the words to seal the ritual, their voices rising as one.

"Keeper of all that is holy and good. Thou hast power over evil. We do summon, stir and call you up to witness our rites and to guard the circle. We have faith in thee. The circle is cast… the power of good unleashed."

The ritual ended, they doused the fire and the candles. In silence the coven members next walked through the trees at the back of the property and into Vanora's three-story red Tudor.

On the many evenings when Vanora entertained, the house was alight with blazing colors and the sounds of laughter and clanging dishes. Tonight it was still and silent and dimly lit. Tables holding miniature lamps and burning candles were scattered throughout the house and inset near the large bay windows.

Ravyn went upstairs and changed into her blouse and jeans. The coven members—who, on the surface, were simply normal citizens of the surrounding communities, working and living in various jobs—arrived and left in street clothes but donned the robes for the rituals, then left them at Vanora's home.

When Ravyn walked out of the bedroom, her mother was in the hall. Sucking in a breath, she turned her head and attempted to walk past, but Gwendyl was not to be deterred. She rushed over, halting Ravyn's escape.

"Ravyn, darling." A smile lit her beautiful face, which was so much like Sorina's, if older. "How are you? I've been so worried about you." She reached out her arms, but Ravyn didn't go into them.

"I'm fine, Mother."

Gwendyl's arms dropped and her smile faded. She nodded. "Well, good. You're tough." She didn't mean it as a compliment, and Ravyn didn't take it that way. "I know you'll be fine."

They stood awkwardly in the muted light of the hall. Ravyn wondered why the two of them even pretended to care about one another. There was too much between them. Too much hurt, too much anger. Ravyn supposed that just as she herself did, her mother pretended for Sorina's benefit.

Ravyn barely remembered her father; he'd died when she was six. But she remembered his kindness, his stability, as opposed to her mother's neuroses. She remembered that he liked to do magic tricks for her and Sorina—albeit magic tricks somewhat more elaborate than those of most fathers.

One time, he'd taken Ravyn and Sorina to the movies. Ravyn had been sitting next to him, her eyes glued to the screen. Her father had leaned over and whispered, "Watch this." His hands pointed toward the front of the theater, and the movie screen began to twirl in clockwise circles, round and round, faster and faster. The other moviegoers had gasped, and their voices had risen in confused murmurs. Ravyn's father had held his sides, laughing so hard he'd spit popcorn out of his mouth. It was a memory Ravyn cherished, because it was one of the last she had of him. Her father had died a few months later.

Ravyn and Sorina's home life after that had been hell.

Her mother had never cared for her children, only about the current man in her life.

A door opened down the hallway, and Vanora came out of a bedroom and approached. "Ravyn, could I please speak with you for a moment?" she asked.

Ravyn's heartbeat stalled. While she was relieved by the excuse to escape her mother, she was gravely concerned about Vanora's wanting to see her. Now she would find out the reason for the meeting of the elders.

She nodded and made her way into Vanora's office, waiting while the coven's high priestess took a seat behind the large mahogany desk in the middle of the room. Ravyn took the seat across from her.

Vanora's face was ageless and unlined, although she was pushing seventy. Her fiery red hair was swept into an updo. Her lips were almost the same shade. Though her features were somewhat cold, she herself was not. Ravyn had been the recipient of the woman's warmth and kindness several times over the years.

"There was something amiss this evening," Vanora stated, her gaze shrewd and unwavering.

"Yes?"

"The circle was weak. You know we need everyone's full attention, their energy, for our work to be successful."

Ravyn nodded. For the first time, she hadn't been sure she wanted the ritual to be successful. "I'm aware of that."

"You were holding back tonight. Would you like to tell me why?"

Ravyn looked down at her hands where they rested on her lap. "I'm sorry."

"That's an apology, not an answer," Vanora replied.

Ravyn shrugged, still not looking at the elder. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do. I understand that you've been through a terrible ordeal, but we need your strength. We need it all the more. We need to help the authorities catch this man."

Cold apprehension slithered down Ravyn's spine. "I… I can't help them."

"You can. You don't want to," Vanora pointed out.

Ravyn's voice was a whisper. "I guess I'm afraid."

"Of course you're afraid—that's only natural. But facing your fear gives you power. In those fears, you shall find the strength to defeat your enemy."

"I'm sorry. I… I can't."

"You can, Ravyn. You must. The elders have asked that you appear in front of the council. They're disturbed about what may have happened while you were in the clutches of the killer. They… have their suspicions about how you escaped."

Ravyn's knees went weak, and for a moment she couldn't find her voice. "What? A council of elders? When? Where?"

"I've put them off for the moment. I assured them of your dedication. But they won't tolerate breaking the rules. You know that."

Ravyn nodded. "I know."

The coven members' power, their magic, came from the bond of their shared beliefs, from the rituals they performed and from observing the laws of the coven. These laws were strict and binding. With each transgression, a witch's powers became weaker. If they continued to stray from the teachings, the witch would become completely powerless. Not only would they risk a loss of their powers. If the elders got wind of a witch's disregard for the coven rules, a special council would be convened to determine if those violations were great enough to warrant banishment. Many times, when that happened, the ousted witch turned to black magic. That consequence—banishment with or without black magic—was abhorrent to Ravyn.

Vanora smiled, and the coldness melted from her features. It was as if an inner warmth radiated through her, softening her expression. "Don't despair, my dear. I have faith in you, and you must have faith in your coven. Now, go. Let us see if we can't help the authorities catch this monster."

Ravyn left Vanora's office feeling somewhat comforted by their talk. Vanora had been the coven high priestess for twenty years, and because of the strained relationship between Ravyn and Gwendyl, Vanora had been a mother figure to her. After the incident with the cat, Ravyn's mother had listened with only half her attention. When Ravyn had finished the account, her mother had said that perhaps she should lose weight and the kids would be nicer to her. Vanora, on the other hand, had kindly and calmly explained that children could be cruel but didn't know any better.

"I know it's difficult," she'd said, "but experiences like this will make you stronger. You must resist the urge to even the score. Instead, pray that your tormentors will learn the error of their ways, that they will discover peace and compassion within them."

Ravyn hadn't gone as far as to pray for the other children, but from then on she'd replayed Vanora's words in her head each time the other students were cruel. That had gotten her through the difficult years of adolescence. Then, as now, Vanora's words reassured Ravyn, giving her a measure of hope.

Ravyn felt guilty about her preoccupation with the Tin Man, anyway. Her sister was trying to plan the happiest day of her life, and even though Ravyn didn't like the idea of Sorina marrying a mortal, and though she damn sure didn't want Sorina to tell him about the coven, she knew that Justin truly made her sister happy. She needed to be available for Sorina in spirit as well as in body. For that reason, Ravyn made a vow to put the incident out of her mind. If the police caught the bastard, fine. If the coven's powers aided in his apprehension, fine. If he spoke to the authorities about what happened… well, that might not be so fine.

As much as she tried to convince herself to concentrate on her sister's happiness, the pall of evil hung heavy over her heart. She knew that things would never be the same. She would spend her days as the condemned had for hundreds of years before her: waiting for the noose to draw closed around her neck.

Nick still lived in the gray-brick, single-story, three-bed-room home he'd shared with Annie. It was two bedrooms too large now that his wife was gone. He no longer hosted overnight guests, and he certainly wouldn't need the extra rooms for children. It was just him and Dog. Always would be.

He stared down at the newspaper clippings littering the surface of the coffee table. Nick hadn't clipped them himself. When he'd left the force, his partner at the time had given them to him. Keepsakes, he'd said. And Nick had kept them. The question was,
why
had he kept them? Their subject wasn't exactly something he wanted to remember.

Nick picked up the framed photo of Annie. She wasn't smiling in the picture. Her expression was pensive as she stared off into the distance. He didn't know what she was looking at, didn't remember who had taken it, but he'd always liked the picture, and she'd framed it for him. She'd always had a great smile, but there was something particular about her thoughtful expression in this photo that appealed to him. Her blonde hair was down around her shoulders the way he liked. She wasn't wearing a lot of makeup. The photo was simple and real—the way he remembered Annie. Simple and real… and gone forever.

He lay the photo on the table facedown and picked up his glass. Poured it full of whiskey. His gaze fell on the clippings again. Why had he taken on the Tin Man case?

Who was he kidding? The man in those articles was someone different, someone he could never be again. If he stayed on this case, he'd fail. Plus, he'd have to see the Skyler woman again. He wasn't sure why, but that thought made him supremely uncomfortable. He couldn't figure out why he'd had such a strong reaction to her, but didn't think he could blame it totally on booze. Or on his long stretch of celibacy.

Not wanting to examine his reactions further, he pushed all thoughts from his mind. Draining the glass, he poured another. Then, picking up the phone, he dialed Phil's number at the office. He got a recording that said the office was closed until Monday, as he'd known it would. It was easier to let someone down over voice mail than in person. He punched Phil's extension when the recording prompted, then left a message.

"Lassiter here. I'm afraid I'm going to have to withdraw from the case. The trail's cold, and I don't see it getting any warmer. The cops can do more than I can, so I don't feel right taking your money. I'll give you back what you've already paid me." Nick wasn't sure how he'd do that. He'd already spent most of it, but he'd figure out something. "Sorry, man. Good luck."