I locked the doors—both outside and bathroom—then turned on the shower full blast, lost the clothes—I wasn’t even going to bother trying to wash them, they were toast—and stepped in. Dirty water swirled down the drain for quite a while. Eventually I pulled back the curtain, reached for a towel and managed—barely—not to scream when my hand went right through Henry.
I had the presence of mind to grab that towel as I whirled, pulling it tightly around me. “Get out!”
“We must talk.”
“I wanted to talk this morning and no you.”
“I had another … never mind.”
“Get out,” I repeated. I should have bought rosemary before I came home. Did I have some in a jar? Would it work? I hoped so.
“Raye, I’ve been with you since you were born.”
“Point?” I climbed out of the tub and strode into my room, pulling clothes out of the drawers, uncaring what they were just that they were.
“I’ve seen you naked.”
I fumbled, and half the clothes hit the floor. “I didn’t need to know that.”
“It means nothing to me.”
“It does to me. Get out.”
He sighed, turned his back. I figured it was the best I could hope for and got dressed. More slowly than I would have if I wasn’t required to hold on to the towel with one hand and yank on jeans and a T-shirt with the other, but I managed.
“Done.”
He faced me.
“What do you want?”
“All I’ve ever wanted was to keep you safe.”
“How are you going to do that when you can’t even come when I call you?”
“I am not a dog.”
“Speaking of … where’s Pru?”
“She’s not a dog either.”
“Nor a ghost.”
“I never said that she was.”
“You said she was your wife.”
“Aye. Always has been.”
“You married a wolf?”
“I know the world has come a long way since my passing, but one cannot yet marry a wolf.” He frowned. “Can they?”
I ignored that, walking out of my bedroom and into the living room. I obsessive-compulsively checked the lock on the door—one maniac had been one too many—then moved into the kitchen where I palmed the jar of rosemary, tucking it into my pocket, just in case.
“You’ve been dead over four hundred years.”
Henry stood near the window, keeping watch. “And yet it seems like only three hundred.”
“Ha,” I deadpanned. “You and Pru, who I assume was human at the time, were burned as witches.”
“Aye,” he agreed, still staring at the window. “I have always had an affinity for ghosts, my wife had one for animals. She could not only talk to them, but understand them too.”
“And they burned you for it?”
He turned. “Among other things.”
I opened my mouth to ask, What other things, and Henry waved a hand. “My past is not important except in how it shapes your present and your future.”
“What does any of it have to do with me? What do you have to do with me?”
Something flickered in his eyes—there and then gone—like a wisp of smoke. In fact, I smelled smoke. And I’d washed and rinsed twice. I sniffed my wrist. Wasn’t me. Which meant that lingering scent of smoke was him. I guess I’d always known that.
“I am here to protect you.”
And he had. I should be more grateful. “I appreciate that. I do.”
He lowered his head then faced the window again.
“Mrs. Noita said her attacker was a she. Then she told me he would burn us all.”
Henry’s shoulders tensed.
“Can you explain that?”
“Not yet.” He tore his gaze from whatever was out there—hopefully not her. Or even him. Or it. “You need to discover what you can about the Venatores Mali.”
“How?”
He pointed to my laptop. I resisted the urge to smack myself in the head and mutter, Duh!
I jiggled my mouse, and the computer awoke. A few strokes of the keys and information poured onto the screen. I became immersed.
The backstory of the cult would have made a good HBO series. They’d have to sex it up—when didn’t they?—but the violence was there. Hell, it was everywhere.
The Tudors had been a hit. I was surprised they hadn’t continued with the Stuarts. King James was a real hoot. Not only had he rewritten the Bible and gotten away with it, but he’d composed Daemonologie, a treatise detailing his beliefs on witchcraft.
After his ascension to the English throne in 1603, he expanded previous legislation on witchcraft, making the raising of, and communication with, spirits punishable by execution.
As most of the English had seen enough burning, hanging, and beheading during the reign of Bloody Queen Mary, they had no desire to see any more. Add to that the prevalent English belief that the Scots were a backward, superstitious race and James found himself unable to enforce those laws without appearing ignorant.
Not a fool by any means, His Majesty had commissioned a secret society, the Venatores Mali, to do his bidding. He’d put Roland McHugh at its helm.
According to his Wikipedia entry Roland had burned more witches than anyone in history. Of course Wikipedia was often wrong, but even if I cut the number in half, he was still a peach.
“Roland burned you and Pru?”
“Yes. He hated witches.”
“And here I thought he burned them for fun.”
“That too,” Henry said dryly. “At least he is dead.”