With a wry tone, Aggie said, “The cavalry usually slaughtered The People, but yes, I know what your witch summoned.” I put her on speakerphone, her soft tones whispering clearly in the stairwell. “I fear it may be one of the Sunnayi Edahi, the invisible night goers. The most fearsome of these evil beings is Kalona Ayeliski, the Raven Mocker.”
The thing in the basement screamed and thrashed in its trap. Kalona Ayeliski. We had its name. That gave us power over it. Big Evan smiled at me, a real smile, maybe the first one I’d ever received. “According to most of the stories,” Aggie said, “the Mocker was a male Cherokee . . . witch is the European term that matches most closely. He could take the shape of a raven and fly to the bedside of a dying person. If the patient wasn’t guarded by holy men who could drive him away, the Mocker would magically remove the dying one’s heart and fly off with it. The patient would die. The mocker would eat the heart and grow younger by however many days he had stolen from the patient. The theft would leave no scar, but if the dead man’s chest cavity was opened, there would be no heart inside.”
I remembered what the demon had said about killing Cherokee on the Trail of Tears, and gaining many years of life. “The evil-deed-doing, big-bad-ugly is a shape-shifter and a witch and a demon. That covers three of the supernatural angles all at once.”
“Yes. It cannot be killed, only bound and banished, as I feared.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That part we got. Thank you, Aggie One Feather. I’ll call later.” I thumbed off the cell and went down into the basement, standing with Rick in the corner. Kemnebi, in human form, studied the demon from across the room, paying particular attention to the sole surviving werewolf. Lincoln Shaddock had disappeared earlier and reappeared now in a burst of vamp speed and displaced air. He looked pinker and more spry, clearly having fed well. I didn’t ask who he snacked on. He brought Pickersgill with him, the vamp placed in a comfy chair upstairs to guard Evangelina while we worked.
The basement room had been rearranged. All the paintings had been removed from the walls and stacked in the other room. There were a lot of us, five witches, a were-cat and a were-cat in training, a vamp, and a skinwalker. In the witch’s circle were a sleeping, spelled werewolf and parts of a dead werewolf. And the demon, of course. The guest of honor.
There were talismans at each place of the pentagram: Molly had a holly branch that was still green. She must have spent some time foraging down the street, because nothing alive was left in Evangelina’s garden. Big Evan had a flute carved of pale wood. Cia had a huge moonstone, something a museum might display, bigger than two fists held together, like an oval crystal ball, its surface catching the light in rainbow hues. The toddler was wide awake, strapped into his car seat, kicking and saying disconnected words about bananas. Molly seemed to understand what he said, but most of it was gibberish to me. He had a feather and a holly leaf tucked under one of the straps. Dad was an air sorcerer, and Mama was an earth witch, so they were logical choices.
Angelina had a pile of stuff: a black rock, a withered leaf, a piece of bark, a wilting daisy, a silver earring, a hawk wing feather, and a doll. It was Ka Nvsita, a Cherokee doll I had given her. It had been in Molly’s van. Nothing in the pile made sense, especially the doll. All witches have an affinity to magical energy in one area or another: moon, earth, water, stone, air, sometimes to fire. Some witches can use other energies, but they all have one area of particular strength. Angie Baby had metal, stone, the daisy for earth, two dead things, the feather, and a man-made doll. I looked at Molly, who was watching me. When she saw my puzzlement, she lifted a shoulder and went back to her conversation. Molly wasn’t worried. Angie was a witch whiz kid; kids weren’t supposed to have magic until puberty. No one knew what was about to happen with Angie’s gift.
The demon—the Raven Mocker—was standing as far away from the stairs as possible, hissing, looking more real and solid than ever. And more like an anzu than I expected—bigger, blacker, more wicked, but similar. Maybe all supernats had their good and evil forms, the polar opposites of each other, like skinwalkers and liver-eaters, witches of the light and blood-witches, civilized vamps and rogue vamps. One group that helped humans, one that thought they were tasty when grilled with onions. Or raw.
I slid away from them, to the floor in the corner, my back to the wall. This wasn’t my gig, and there was nothing I could do to help except give blood, but, like Rick, I wasn’t gonna miss it. He joined me on the floor, his thigh against mine. His eyes widened when he felt the knife belted there. I let my smile grow. “Better safe than sorry.”