In the midst of trying to salvage as many Nemos as I could—it wasn’t easy. I only had one net, and no water—I froze at the scent of smoke.
My Puritan, or any other ghost for that matter, was nowhere around. No wolf—thank God with all these kids—at the edge of the trees either. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen Stafford all day, and that was unusual. Not to mention troublesome. The only thing worse than a present Stafford was a missing one. Bad stuff happened when he was too long on his own.
I frowned in the direction of town. The fire couldn’t be his fault; he was attached to the school. But what about Genevieve? She seemed to be able to travel farther afield than any ghosts I’d encountered before. She’d obviously come to New Bergin with Bobby, but didn’t seem confined to his immediate radius. I’d never seen that before.
Then again, I rarely left town, and folks rarely stayed in town long enough for me to analyze any ghost they might have brought along. Despite having seen spirits all of my life, I’d spent most of my time avoiding them, or trying to ignore them, rather than understand them. Wouldn’t you?
“So many ghosts, so little time,” I murmured.
“Here, Miss Larsen, you can put them in my bag.” Troy held open his plastic Ziploc. I dumped the contents within. Too small for five fish, they all began bumping into one another, twirling, swishing. Troy giggled and zipped the lock.
“Take them home and put them in a larger container,” I ordered.
His mom arrived, and he held up the bag for her inspection. She cast me a glance.
“Sorry,” I said. “They’re discounting fish food and bowls at Ben Franklin.” They always did on carnival weekend.
We wound up losing money on the fish game, which was close to impossible considering the outlay on goldfish and the income on Ping-Pong balls. However, when three quarters of the inventory winds up part of an alfresco Picasso painting …
Genevieve materialized, and I dropped the handful of quarters I’d been trying to roll. They bounced all over the fish-strewn ground.
“I’m not picking those up,” Jenn said. “They’ve got fish cooties.”
“Like you’d pick them up regardless,” I muttered. Even if she hadn’t been wearing a skirt too short for such acrobatics, Jenn did not squat.
“Daddy!” Genevieve shouted.
No sign of Bobby anywhere.
Her lip trembled; her gaze turned toward town. “He’s going to get hurt.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Where is who?” Jenn worked the calculator. I wasn’t sure what she was adding, since I wasn’t done counting. She also didn’t touch money. It was “icky.”
“There’s going to be a fire,” Genevieve said.
Going to be? Wasn’t there one already?
I bit my tongue to keep from quizzing the invisible child. “Did you ever hear what was on fire?” I asked Jenn.
She pulled out her phone, scrolled through her texts. “Apparently nothing.”
Genevieve spread her hands in a “told you so” gesture far too mature for her years. Most little girls were.
“They needed EMTs,” Jenn continued.
As one emergency service brought all emergency services this made sense. Though the damn siren was usually reserved for fire only.
Genevieve wrung her hands then hopped back and forth as if she had to pee.
“Where?” I asked, a question for both of them.
“The witch’s house,” they said at the exact same time.
*
Bobby reached through the broken window and flipped the lock on the back door. He stepped inside, crunching glass beneath his shoes as he hurried through the kitchen to the hallway where he’d seen the feet.
They were attached to a woman. She was very white. Hair, athletic shoes, skin. Everything else was very red—clothes, hands, walls.
“Mrs. Noita?” He hunkered next to her, trying not to screw up the crime scene. He could swear she was still breathing, though with that much blood outside instead of in, he couldn’t see how. The woman’s eyes opened.
“Mrs. Noita?” he repeated.
She blinked then lifted a trembling hand toward the gaping wound in her neck, obviously the source of all the blood. A wolf snarled—fresh, red, and raw—from the back of that hand.
Bobby cursed. Dead maniacs could not brand anyone, which meant …
They had a live one.
He dialed 911 without even glancing at the numbers. He had no idea what he said, but sirens wailed almost immediately. At least, in a place like this, help wasn’t very far away.
Considering the scope of this injury, he wasn’t sure their resources would be sufficient. He wasn’t sure anything short of a miracle would be.
Her eyelashes fluttered.
“Ma’am! Stay with me. Look at me.”
She did.
“Who did this?”
Her mouth opened, her teeth pushed against her bottom lip. At first he thought it was the pain, then he heard a slight outrush of air and a word, “Vena.”
“Vena did this?” Odd name, but this was an odd place.
“N— Na.” She was getting agitated. Blood bubbled from her mouth.
“Vena,” he said. “I got it.”