The door to the clinic was open when Owen arrived. Light spilled into the gravel parking lot, pushing against the threat of night.
Two voices rose from within. One was Becca’s. She didn’t sound angry or frightened. She didn’t sound thrilled either.
At least Owen had had the sense to bring his gun. Before he could pull it out of the holster, Reggie nosed open the door and trotted inside.
“Whoa!” Becca ordered, as the wolf growled. “She’s not ready for prime time yet.”
Owen stepped inside just as Reggie slid back toward him as if he’d run across the slick tile floor and lost traction.
“Henry!” someone—not Becca—exclaimed.
The dog bumped against the wall and scrambled to his feet, ruff lifted.
“Bly’b,” Owen ordered. Reggie stayed, but he didn’t look happy about it.
When Becca and the other woman turned toward him, Owen had to lean against the wall as the weird washed over him. He’d made fun of Reitman for saying they looked exactly alike except for their hair and eyes, but the man had been right. They were almost twins.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The dark-haired Becca clone offered her hand. “Raye Larsen. You must be Owen. I didn’t catch your last name.”
The only way she could have “caught” his first name was from Becca. That Becca was still alive and not stabbed, strangled, smothered, or branded meant this woman wasn’t her attacker. Not to mention that while she had dark hair, it only brushed her shoulders and she wasn’t anywhere near six feet tall.
“Owen McAllister.” They shook. “This is Reggie.”
“Hello, Reggie.”
She didn’t try to pet him. Good choice. The dog appeared both spooked and annoyed. For some reason he stared at the empty corner next to the wolf as if an invisible pork chop danced the tango there.
“Why did you call him Henry?”
“I didn’t.”
Owen opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Not an argument he needed to have at the moment.
“The wolf seems fine now.” Or as fine as a wolf got. Her eerie green eyes flicked from person to person as if she were listening.
“I took out a bullet,” Becca said. “Considering the infection, it had been in there a while.”
“About a week,” Raye said. “Give or take.”
“You shot her?” Owen asked.
“No!” She sounded horrified. “She’s my—” Her lips tightened.
“Pet?” That would explain her constant proximity to people. An explanation Owen liked much more than rabies.
“Wolves aren’t pets.”
“Okay.” He waited for her to explain what the wolf was, but she didn’t. From the silence that followed she wasn’t going to.
“Is your mom all right?” Becca asked.
“She’s in the wind again.”
Quickly he explained what had happened, not even caring that a stranger was hearing the details. She looked so much like Becca she didn’t seem like a stranger at all.
“This Peggy was attacked and branded?” Raye asked.
“Just like the animals.”
“What animals?”
Becca explained.
“Animals won’t raise the dead,” Raye said. “Only people do.”
Owen flicked a glance at Becca. Reitman had said something similar, though he’d said human sacrifice brought forth Satan. Owen wasn’t buying either one.
“You think killing people brings the dead back to life?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what they think.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“The Venatores Mali.”
“Shit,” Owen muttered.
“You’ve heard of them?”
“Peggy said that right before she died.”
“Was Peggy a witch?”
Owen blinked. “How’d you know that?”
“You’d better tell him,” Becca said.
Raye connected the dots. The revival of an ancient witch-hunting society, their purpose to raise their leader from beyond, with a recipe that involved dead witches, branding, fire, blood, sacrifice.
“Peggy was attacked,” Owen continued, “then branded, but she wasn’t burned.”
“The car was on fire,” Becca said. “Whoever attacked her probably lit it up and took off, then Peggy crawled out.”
“Fat lot of good it did her. She should have run over the long-haired bitch instead.”
“Brown hair?” Raye asked. “Down to her hips? Big woman—six feet, solid?”
Owen nodded.
“Mistress June.”
“Wait a second,” Becca murmured. “Did she have her arm in a sling?”
“Peggy didn’t mention it,” Owen said. “I doubt she’d have been much good at the killing with one arm. Why?”
“A woman with long, dark hair was watching me from the crowd after someone tried to kill me.”
“You weren’t suspicious of a woman that size?” Owen asked.
Becca shrugged. “She was sitting on a car and had her arm in a sling. So no.”
“She’s probably been here since she ran out of New Bergin,” Raye said. “I’d hoped she crawled under a bush and died, but that almost never happens.”
“Why would she?”
“My fiancé shot Mistress June.”
“Why?”
“She was trying to kill me.”
“She thinks you’re a witch too?” Owen asked.
“That’s one way of putting it.”