“Henry,” Raye said. “Thank God. We can’t find Becca.”
She listened. Pru glanced over her shoulder, a worried expression in her green, human eyes.
“What is it?” Owen asked.
“He can’t find her either. He was looking, trying, which was why he didn’t come.”
“How can—”
Raye held up her hand, and Owen fell silent. “The only way to keep him from finding her would be to ward the place where she is.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She wouldn’t,” Raye said. “She couldn’t. Becca only discovered who she was yesterday.”
“It’s not that hard to ward against ghosts,” Bobby said. “Rosemary does the trick just fine.”
Owen cast him a glance. How did he know that?
The man lifted his chin toward the invisible Henry. “There are some things a father shouldn’t see.”
He had a point, and the idea that Becca’s real father might have seen even more than her adopted—or whatever Dale was—father made Owen cringe.
“Rosemary,” Owen repeated. “Thanks.” He put buying some on his mental to-do list.
“Have you come to the dark side?” Cassandra asked. “You believe?”
Owen wasn’t sure when, or how, or why that had happened—beyond Becca’s needing him to—but …
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
“If it weren’t for the warding, I’d think Becca had gone on a call, visited a friend or family, or gone shopping,” Franklin said. “But for her location to be deliberately shielded, and not by her, indicates she’s been taken.”
Owen’s heart seemed to stop, then start again with a painful jolt.
“All right,” Raye said, but she wasn’t talking to any of them, she was talking to Henry. She faced the room. “I need to scry for her location.”
“You know how?” Bobby asked.
“No.” Her gaze met Cassandra’s. “But I bet you do.”
“Why would an FBI consultant know how to scry?” Owen asked. He wasn’t even sure he knew what scrying was.
“Voodoo priestess,” Cassandra said.
“Excellent.” The more magic, the better. Anything to find, save, protect Becca.
Anything.
*
The storm was heating up. Wind, thunder, lightning. The lake roiled like a cauldron. Becca could smell distant rain.
Jeremy produced a few zip ties from his fancy pants. “Hands.”
“Fuck you.”
He sliced my wrist with the athame. The way the blood sprayed, he’d hit a vein. I slapped my free hand onto the wound. Sparks flew. I steeled myself against the sickening lurch in my stomach as flesh knit together. Jeremy wrapped the zip tie around my wrists and pulled.
He was damn quick for an asshole.
He grabbed the front of my shirt with one hand, then lifted the other in front of my face and opened his fist. Green flecks that smelled pleasantly of an herb I couldn’t place sprinkled against my skin, catching in my bra, sifting across my stomach, and gathering where I’d tucked in my shirt.
“What the hell?” I asked, but he just smiled.
When he bent to bind my ankles, I kneed him in the chin. His teeth clicked together. As he fell backward, he stabbed the athame into my thigh. From the spread of the blood on my jeans, he’d nicked my femoral artery. He was so good at this I knew he’d done it before—many times.
I reached for the athame with bloody fingers. If I wanted to heal the wound the blade had to come out. The instant I touched the handle, lightning fell from the sky, so close every hair on my body seemed to sizzle.
Had I done that? I didn’t think so. If I’d brought the lightning, I’d have brought it down on him.
Blood dripped off Jeremy’s chin. He lurched to his feet, and I jabbed at him with the knife. He kicked it, and my hands were so slick, the weapon flew.
While he chased the thing, I ran, staggered, then slid in the blood spreading out from my feet like a pool. I wasn’t thinking clearly, probably from blood loss. Running wasn’t an option until I healed myself. If I didn’t do it soon I might bleed out.
I slapped my palm over the wound, gritting my teeth as it came together with a sickening slurp.
Jeremy’s arm went around my neck; the knife pricked my skin. “Try anything else and I’ll slit your throat. I only need to sacrifice a witch. It doesn’t have to be you.”
I stilled. He could keep cutting me; I could keep healing myself. But eventually I’d be too weak to move. I needed to quit while I still had enough blood left to fill my head so I could think. What else did Jeremy need to raise Roland?
Sacrifice of a witch by a Venatores Mali with the most kills. Chants of the worthy believers. Plural. Right now there was only him. Wasn’t there something about the moon too? It was morning. Which meant I still had time.
He bound my arms to my sides with a bungee cord he’d pulled from somewhere then shoved me toward the cliff. I was half afraid he meant to throw me off. But a few feet from the drop he grabbed my collar. Was he afraid I’d jump?