Circle of the Moon (Soulwood #4)

I looked at the new boss. I didn’t know why I was predisposed to dislike him. He had done nothing bad to me. He hadn’t fired me or even said anything about a dog or a teenaged girl at HQ, though he had to be able to smell them both with his skinwalker senses. Maybe it was the deeply self-contained, reserved aspect of his nature. The sense that he was aloof, unapproachable, and arrogant. Arrogant, superior, righteous men were irritating.

I dipped my head and thought carefully about my words. As a Cherokee, he might know things about the spirit of the land that white men didn’t. “The spirit that guards the earth is well. The thing that is rising through the crust of the earth doesn’t belong there. I can’t think of anything natural that might make the earth shudder with revulsion. It feels nasty but sentient. It doesn’t feel anything like salamanders. I think it’s something intelligent. Maybe a Power or a Principality.” I didn’t know his religious background so I added, “Powers and Principalities are how the Christian Bible refers to spiritual entities and authorities other than God or angels.” I watched his face in the night, as he processed my statements. Seconds passed as I measured the rising speed of the filthy thing, my hands buried in Soulwood soil.

“How long before this demon reaches the surface?” he asked.

I drew a sharp breath at the term demon. “I don’t know. But the more blood Jason uses, the more likely the filth is to break free. I think. I’m not really sure.”

“Thank you, Ingram.” FireWind had been leaning against the low wall. He pushed off and went back down the stairs, silent on the night, leaving Occam and me sitting on my pink blanket, wrapped around each other on the roof in the muggy heat.

“You okay to get up, Nell, sugar?”

“I’m just great,” I lied.

Occam chuckled and said, “I know you’re fabricatin’ here, but it does feel good to not have to cut you free of roots and vines and branches and trim your bushels of leaves.”

“I never had bushels of leaves, not even in autumn. I think I’m more of an evergreen, and evergreens don’t shed.”

Occam snickered at my seasonal leaf joke. “Come on, Nell, sugar. Let me help you find your sea legs.”

? ? ?

We parked in front of the Knoxville Livestock Center on Mascot Road. The stockyard was miles out of the city limits, in a farming area with lots of acreage dedicated to crops and sparsely populated by houses. On satellite maps, the stockyard itself was a large square of land, marked by unpaved roads and unpaved parking, a few corrals, outbuildings, some scattered farm equipment, a large roofed area, and a few acres of pasture. In person, the place was hot and stank of manure, cows, horses, and maybe chickens and goats, the mixed scents strong, even from the road in front.

There wasn’t time to reconnoiter, not with someone or some things dying, and the unit’s small drone was out of order, waiting on a replacement rotor. Op planning was supposed to include strategic, operational, and tactical elements. Ours was pretty simple. Move in. Locate the witch circle. Throw a massive null spell at the working. Take down Jason. Without backup. Not because we were all macho or full of hubris, but because humans were no match against witches and other paras, so local law backup was useless and probably presented more danger than assistance.

On the way, in the unit’s van, we had geared up in vests and completed weapons checks. FireWind had assigned clock positions to the entire property, based on the satellite map. The entrance was six, the main roofed structures were at the center of the clock, and some structures of some kind at the back of the cleared area were twelve. The hours were less assigned than general placement based on the fixed points. That was all we had in termes of strategy.

“Comms check,” FireWind said.

We all called off and Jo, back at headquarters said, “Clementine is recording. Head and vest cams recording. All go.”

The security lights were off. All the buildings were black-on-black, and with the moon still below the horizon, the property was unrelieved dark, darker than the armpit of hell, as John used to say.

My husband had a lot of pithy sayings. If he could see me now, he’d be telling me to get my backside home. But I wasn’t a wife anymore. I was an officer of the law, a federal agent, in a Kevlar and Dyneema vest, weapon drawn, wearing night-vision headgear.

We raced forward, scanning the property and buildings. Bloodlust hit me again, seductive as a ball-peen hammer. It shuddered through me.

“Blood,” Occam said, his voice in my earbud. “I smell a lot of blood.” His eyes were glowing gold, and he and FireWind were advancing like hunting cats, all caution and excitement and careful forward progression.

My breath came fast.

We proceeded along the dirt entry road to the wall-less, roofed area. Courtesy of the new boss, I had my own headgear, instead of having to share one set with the others. FireWind had brought all sorts of toys from PsyLED main HQ to the unit, which meant the world wasn’t black as pitch, but glowed green in the low-light-vision goggles. Stalls, pens, but nothing moving. When I flipped the switch to infrared, there were animals lying everywhere. There must be a livestock sale tomorrow. Or today. But nothing moved. The pens and stalls were full of animals, all dead, all drenched in blood. I didn’t switch off the headgear and shine my small flash as FireWind did, to get a better view. What I could make out in the green glow was bad enough. What I felt in the land was worse, a vile sickness that washed up and over everything. Sick, sick, sick. Illness and death. My bloodlust died.

“Is the circle under the covered area, Ingram?” FireWind asked.

Even through my field boots I knew it was farther back. “No,” I said and pointed deeper into the property, into the darkness. “The Holston River is that way. The circle is close to the bank of the river.” And the sacrifice. And the closer we got, the more I knew for certain what Jason had used. I could feel it, even through the soles of my boots.

“Moon witches want the open sky overhead,” T. Laine confirmed. “And what I’ve learned suggests that this curse working needs open, empty sky.”

“Then why the dead animals?” FireWind asked.

“I think the dead animals are secondary to the main sacrifice,” T. Laine said shortly. “Their throats aren’t slit. They just sponeaneously bled out. Like magical Ebola or something.”

“I smell fangheads,” Occam growled, “and their blood. A lot of blood.”

T. Laine raced forward several steps and stopped. Her body quivered like a live wire. “The curse circle working just ended. Jason has to still be here, somewhere on the property. We don’t have much time.”

Knees bent, weapons pointing down in front, in two-hand grips, we sprinted in the direction I had indicated, beyond the covered holding pens into the open area, a place with no cover.

“I don’t see anything,” Occam said. “But I smell the blood. And cattle. And death.”

I swallowed hard. Hunger …

FireWind said, “Spread out. Take it slow. Move into cover where you can. Dyson, take a position between the stalls and the road, in the trees at five o’clock.”

Tandy turned and melted back the way we came.

We moved across the property, past the covered sheds and a Quonset hut–like building, toward the river, leaving behind the dirt road for a grassy area that might once have been used as pasture. Ahead was a line of trees and a road, then more trees and the Holston. The smell of magic grew on the air, tingling and foul, making me want to sneeze.

“Fangheads,” Occam growled. “Fanghead blood.”

And now I was sure. Jason’s attack used a vampire as sacrifice. Vampires. At least two of them.

On the road beyond the grassy space, a vehicle sped up. Braked. A door closed, a sliding door, like on a van or panel truck. The vehicle raced away. The decision to not have human law enforcement backup on-site came back to bite us. There was no one to give chase, and any local law meant the sheriff’s deputies who covered many square miles of territory and were likely twenty minutes away, running lights and sirens. The van sped away, into the night.

“He’s gone,” T. Laine said, sounding frustrated. “It doesn’t make sense. The summoning is over and nothing was called.”

FireWind cursed. “We lost him. Hold your positions. Cover me.” He dashed ahead, across the open area. He stopped so suddenly it was like watching an animated film. “Staggered approach,” he said through the earbuds. “There’s a line of dead cattle and then a circle.” A small flash aimed at the earth for a half second, illuminating his field boots and something white on the ground. “Move carefully. Do not disturb the circle. I think it’s a reversed hedge of thorns, blood activated. We do not, repeat, do not want to disturb it.”

I moved through the shin-high grass toward the left of the bright green of Ayatas FireWind visible in low-light goggles, standing alone, in the open area. Occam moved to my side. T. Laine, laden with a backpack of witchy supplies, took FireWind’s path.

“I smell Rick’s blood,” Occam muttered.

Not possible, I thought. Rick wasn’t here. Even with the headgear, I nearly stumbled over a dead animal lying in the grass. I drew a flash and looked it over. It was a young steer, throat slit, blood all over the ground. I was shaking.