Magic Misled (Lizzie Grace #7) - Keri Arthur Page 0,74

of the table, close to the remnants of her body, was the last victim. She was definitely elderly and, despite the confusion on her ghostly features, appeared a whole lot calmer than a couple of the others.

Belle carefully reached out to her. She swung around, her ghostly features briefly disintegrating before resolving into an expression of surprise. Oh, I didn’t expect to see or hear anyone in this state.

You know what’s happened? Belle asked.

Obviously, I’m dead. Horribly, violently dead.

The shudder that ran through the woman’s form was a heated wave of pain that washed through Belle and into me. I gripped her fingers a little tighter and silently bolstered her strength. She was going to need it, even if this woman appeared more aware and emotionally controlled than many ghosts.

Your name? Belle asked.

Jenny. Jenny Brown. She looked around again. Why have we not moved on?

I repeated the questions and answers for the recording Jaz was making; it was something that had become almost second nature, given we’d done this far too many times now.

Because this death wasn’t ordained, so you need help to do so, Belle said. That’s something I can help you with, but I need to ask some questions first.

So the date of your death really is written in the stars on the day you’re born? Jenny asked.

In a sense, yes, though many things can alter it. Fate is not an unmoving timeline—the things we do and the decisions we make always have an effect.

Huh. She drew herself upright, and I had the sudden impression that she’d been a headmistress at some point in her life. She had that look—that no-nonsense manner. What can I do to help you?

I’m afraid I need to know what you saw before your death.

Why?

Because it may help track down this thing before it kills again.

It all happened so very fast. One minute we were arguing about decorations, and the next …

A shudder ran through her and, just for a second, her horror was thick and overwhelming. Belle smothered the wave as best she could, but it nevertheless left us both gasping. Having to shield out the emotions of the other five was definitely making things harder.

The first I knew of the assault was Derry’s screams, Jenny continued, a catch in her voice. By then, the creature was tearing into Marian.

Can you describe the creature?

Jenny’s nose wrinkled. She was a mix of wolf and human—it was almost as if her shift had gotten stuck at midpoint.

Did you recognize her? Was she young or old?

Jenny hesitated. The human portion of her face reminded me of Leesa Rhineheart, but she was far too young to actually be her. Besides, Leesa wasn’t a wolf.

Did you know Leesa?

I taught her, though that was at least thirty years ago now, if not more. Her brief smile was tinged with sadness. She was barely sixteen back then, but you always remember the children with serious behavioral problems.

“Ask her if Patrick or the others were in Leesa’s class” came Jaz’s comment.

Belle did so, and Jenny nodded. They weren’t what I call on friendly terms though.

Do you know why?

Students rarely confide in their parents when it comes to being bullied, let alone their teachers. She hesitated. I suspect there was more than that to it, though.

As in, physical violence? Like rape?

I honestly can’t say. I wouldn’t have thought any of the boys capable of such a thing, though.

How many times had that been said over the centuries, I thought, when plenty of them had?

Is there anything else you can tell me about her? Belle asked. Anything unusual that caught your eye?

Once again Jenny hesitated. I won’t swear to this, because she moved with blinding speed, but I think she had some sort of mark on her cheek—her human cheek, not wolf.

What sort of mark?

It looked rather like a scythe with a snake woven around it. I remember thinking it was a rather odd place for a tattoo.

Given our rogue was capable of dark magic, I was betting it wasn’t a tattoo. At least, not an ordinary one. A few months ago we’d confronted a dark practitioner who’d taken over the body of his much younger apprentice—something only the most powerful dark witches could do. That apprentice had been wearing a maker’s mark—a tattoo on the cheek that signified who his master was.

Why didn’t you run? Why didn’t the others run?

I certainly tried, but it felt like my feet were glued to the floor. The others did run, but they were moving