The afternoon clouds shadowed the lake as I drove along 89, while birds hurried to return to their shelters as the heavy snowfall began. I wondered if Saint Peter would reunite me with my sisters tonight, or if he would find me unworthy of entrance into heaven. “Thou shall not kill, remember?” a voice reminded me. But did God make exceptions for those so sick with grief they could barely stay within the yellow lines?
I guess I’ll find out.
I pulled into The Wild Willow, Meeks Bay’s resort and the sole camp rental facility in the area. The two-story clapboard building had closed down for the winter, but for the moment, it remained my only lead. I drove through the lot and over the wide snowy lawn, steering the Legacy behind a thick cluster of trees. I cut the engine and waited, not bothering to leave the heat on. It didn’t take long for the falling snow to cover my tracks, or my windshield. But I didn’t need to see, only hear. Hear for any sounds of voices, or steps, or breaths.
Muffled yells of my sisters jolted my already fragile nerves. And at one point I thought I felt Emme’s touch. I closed my eyes and allowed one more tear to fall before I reached for my predator’s hunger. My stomach growled. I needed to eat. I wondered briefly how Larissa would taste.
I didn’t know how Larissa had managed to take my sisters from me, but the longer I sat against the chilly leather seat, the more I realized how much I’d miss them. It had only been the four of us for so long. And while I knew their future spouses and families would eventually sever our close-knit bond, I hadn’t prepared myself to lose them so soon. I’d thought for sure we had a few good years left. Now, we didn’t have anything.
Blackness claimed the inside of the car. In the darkness, my sisters’ cries pleaded with me to return home. But all that awaited me were their corpses. I didn’t want to view their dead bodies again so soon.
Or ever.
I heard a set of tires crunch through the snow near the front of the building, followed quickly by another set. The voices were mere whispers and far from where I hid. Still I heard them.
Someone opened a car door. “Don’t worry. You can’t see our cars from the road.”
Doors slammed shut. “It’s freezing,” a different person said.
“Quit complaining,” another snapped. “And hurry up. We have to replace the other group before Larissa gets pissed.”
Bingo.
I waited until the footsteps all but faded from my sensitive ears before stepping out. Snow fell onto my hair and bare arms and my warm breath filled the night. I jerked, as if jolted, and scanned the area, searching for the witches. Nothing there. The group was getting further away. I needed to move. Now.
My tigress kept our steps light. I veered around the corner where three Jettas had parked in an old stable area serving as a carport. The witches were right; no way would their cars be visible from the road. But I wasn’t hunting Jettas. I was hunting their drivers.
I stayed low, following the fresh footsteps across the street. When I neared the trail leading to rented cottages, I slipped into the woods. I barely sensed the snow drifting into my shoes and soaking my tank top. I ignored the goose bumps spreading up my arms and the inadvertent shakes of my body. Instead, I focused on the aromas of mint, rosemary, saffron, and nutmeg the witches emitted like a spice rack. The four witches I followed had abandoned their Gap clothes and replaced them with red medieval capes. They resembled liquid fire as the wind fluttered their capes against the white wilderness.
None appeared to notice me. They kept their heads down against the increasing wind, and their conversation revolved around the miserable weather. I kept my distance, ducking low into the brush where the trees thinned out. They couldn’t sense my magic from this far away. At least, that’s what I counted on.
I’d taken several careful paces when I thought I heard Taran swearing from somewhere far behind me. I glanced back. Only the outstretched limbs of barren trees greeted me. Not the arms of my sisters. Of course not the arms of my sisters. My tigress chuffed, imploring me to concentrate on the task. I veered back and continued my chase.
After about fifteen minutes of trudging through and griping about the snow, the witches came upon an old mountain cabin shaped like a giant wooden triangle. There were three levels; the top had two windows and was swathed in complete darkness—likely a small loft. Only one lamp lit the second floor. Candles flickered on the first, but the drapes kept me from seeing more than a few figures pacing. They didn’t, however, keep me from hearing the muted chants of the coven.
“Find her,” one woman called.
“Find her,” the group repeated.
“Guide her.”
“Guide her.”
“Blind her.”
“Blind her.”
“See through only us. We implore you.”