“Our minds? Spirits? Souls?” She shrugged. “A little of all three?”
As the Scotland of 1612 no longer existed, that made sense. Or at least it made as much sense as anything did lately.
“You said the Book of Shadows was yours.”
“It is.”
“Then why don’t you know more about the spell?”
She began to return the articles she’d set out to the sack. “I should have said that it’s mine now.”
I rubbed my head. There were so many things I wanted to ask. Where to start, where to start? She didn’t give me a chance.
“I’m an air witch. We rule the crossover between this world and the next. We can communicate with the dead.” She spread her hands. “Air witches can bring the dead across—either to this plane as ghosts, or we can send a ghost on to the next.”
She waited for me to comment, but what was I supposed to say to that?
“This book belonged to another air witch,” she continued. “She had the power to alleviate pain, an air witch gift that I don’t have. At least not yet. She left her book to me when she died.” Her eyes met mine. “The Venatores Mali killed her.”
“How can a witch-hunting society from the seventeenth century still be active today?”
“They’ve been revived.”
“Why?”
“To raise Roland.”
“The asshole we just saw?”
Raye nodded.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“If you want sense, you came to the wrong place.”
“How do you raise a dead witch hunter?”
“Sacrifice of a witch by a Venatores Mali who’s killed the most witches, while the worthy believers chant, skyclad, or naked, beneath the moon.”
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve seen it. I was nearly the witch du jour.”
“Someone tried to kill you?”
“It’s the world’s new favorite pastime.”
“Join the club,” I said. “Why us?”
“Apparently the crazies get points for every witch they kill. Then they’re supposed to brand the victim with their secret decoder rings and burn the bodies. Initiation to the freak zone.”
“You have no idea how they knew we were witches before we knew ourselves?” I wasn’t even sure I believed it now.
“If I ever get my hands on one of them for more than a minute, I plan to beat a lot of things out of them. That’s on the list.”
“What happens when they raise this dude?”
“I don’t want to find out. We’re going to stop them before they succeed.”
Sounded like a really good plan. I’d only had one glimpse of Roland McHugh, and I didn’t want another. Especially if he’d been dead for the last four hundred years.
“But why would a bunch of witches go to all this trouble to raise a man who hates them?”
“The Venatores Mali aren’t witches. They’re witch hunters.”
“Who chant and perform spells, naked, beneath the moon. What isn’t witchy about that?”
“Murder is not witchcraft. Those who practice Wicca, and those born to the craft, true witches, harm none. Harm is all the Venatores Mali do.”
I remembered the upside-down pentagram at Owen’s place. “Satanism?”
“Maybe. All I know is that they mean to bring Roland back, and they’ve got a rocking head start.”
“Why does he want to come back?”
“Wouldn’t you? Hell can’t be much of a picnic.”
“What does he hope to accomplish? His family’s gone.”
“But the family he blames for that isn’t.”
“Henry’s a ghost. That’s pretty gone. Pru’s a wolf.” I wasn’t sure what that was.
“Roland wants to end the Taggart line, as his was ended.”
“By Taggarts you mean Pru and Henry?”
“And their three daughters.”
“The amazing, disappearing babies who were born four hundred years ago. I doubt they’re still around.”
“Henry and Pru are still around.”
“Not the way they once were. And why is that?”
“We don’t know for sure. They performed a spell that sent the girls to a place where no one believes in witches any more. The sacrifice of their lives fueled the magic. But the spell was to save their children not themselves.”
“Yet here they are.” Kind of.
“Maybe once the Venatores Mali were revived, so were Henry and Pru.”
“Why are the Venatores Mali revived now?” I asked. “Why not go after the Taggart descendants ASAP? The longer they waited the more of them there would be. By now, there are probably hundreds. Thousands even.”
“Not quite,” Raye said. “What he’s really after, and has been from that night in the woods, is us.”
I blinked. “Us?”
“Triplet girls,” she said. “One dark.” She fingered her hair. “One redhead.” Her gaze touched on my braid. “One blond.” She spread her hands. “Sent through time to a place that doesn’t believe in witches any more.”
“You’re saying we’re those babies?”
“You didn’t see that coming?”
I hadn’t, and here’s why.
“I’m not adopted.”
*