“Holy shit!” a strange voice yelled. Lily saw a person stumble into the light of her bonfire. It was Scot.
“Scot, help him!” she pleaded desperately. He stared at her floating form, his jaw dropped in shock. “Now!” she commanded.
Scot managed to snap himself out of it and he tackled Carrick, knocking him off Breakfast. They rolled and twisted across the ground. Lily heard Scot scream. Breakfast righted himself, reared back, and hit Carrick with everything he had. Carrick tumbled away from Scot, who was gasping and gurgling in the snow. A pool of black blood fanned out around Scot’s head. Carrick had cut his throat.
Lily! What’s happening?
Rowan, it was a trap! Come quick!
Breakfast knelt next to Scot and pressed his palms against his neck as if he could hold back the tide of blood. As Scot clutched at Breakfast’s arms, drowning in his own blood, Carrick scrambled to his feet and reached a hand into the collar of his overcoat.
“Lillian,” he called, clutching his willstone. Lily saw a brilliant flash of magelight that haloed Carrick for a split second, and then he disappeared between the trees.
Rowan, Tristan, and Una arrived a moment too late. Rowan took a handful of steps down Carrick’s escape path, and stopped.
“He’s already too far,” Rowan said through gritted teeth.
Tristan threw himself down next to Breakfast, tearing at the hem of his shirt.
“Tie it off,” Tristan said, wrapping the rag around Scot’s neck.
“Here,” Una said, joining the circle around Scot’s head. “My scarf.”
“Everyone just stop!” Breakfast snapped. “Rowan, do something!”
“The cut is too deep to heal,” Rowan said regretfully. “It’s almost to the spine.”
The frantic motion around Scot slowed and one by one they all sat back on their heels. Lily let go of the power loop, her witch wind died, and she dropped back down to earth.
“Let me see him,” she insisted, running forward and sinking to her knees by Scot’s side. The snow around him steamed with the heat of his spilled blood.
“He’s dead,” Tristan said, closing Scot’s vacant eyes.
*
“I should have claimed him,” Lily said. They’d been sitting in the snow for twenty minutes, the fire popping behind them, trying to come up with a plan.
“I should have known he was following us when we saw that car back up behind us on Winter Street,” Tristan said.
“How?” Una asked, grimacing. “You’re not Jason frigging Bourne.”
“There’s no point in trying to assign blame to anyone but the murderer,” Rowan said. “Scot is dead because Carrick killed him. The end.”
“What do we do?” Breakfast asked.
“We could bury him here. Hide the body,” Una suggested weakly.
Tristan shook his head, laughing bitterly under his breath. “It doesn’t matter if they find the body or not, Una. If he goes missing, who are the police going to think is responsible? Probably the last person who got into a huge fight with him, threatened to kill him, and then sent him to the hospital.”
“They’re going to suspect all of us, not just you, Tristan,” Lily said, holding up a hand before Una could say something sarcastic. “They already do suspect us. Agent Simms isn’t going to quit. Ever.”
“Yeah,” Breakfast said quietly. “They’ll keep looking until they find his body and once they do, we’re all screwed.” He looked at Scot’s corpse, which was covered with bits of their clothes, fingerprints, and who-knows-what DNA. “Even if we burn him, we’d probably leave something behind on accident.”
“I’m not going to jail,” Tristan said, his voice leaden.
“Me neither,” Una agreed.