somewhere deep in the woods a tree toppled over. The wolves howled, louder, closer—I swore there were more of them—and the circle of hunters shifted.
“I confessed, you swine,” Henry shouted.
“You thought that would save her?” McHugh tut-tutted, then snatched the blazing torches and tossed them onto the pyre. The dry, ancient wood flared.
Henry reached for Pru’s hands. They were just close enough to touch palm to palm. “Imagine a safe place,” he said. “Where no one believes in witches any more.”
“Uh-oh,” I murmured.
The forest shimmered. Clouds skittered over the moon. Flames shot so high they seemed to touch the sky. Several hunters standing too close stumbled back, lifting their arms to shield their faces. The fire died with a whoosh, leaving nothing behind but ashes and smoke.
No Henry. No Pru.
A cry went up. The men who’d held the children now held empty blankets.
* * *
Between one blink and the next, four hundred years fell away. My eyes registered a silver-tinged, chilly Scottish night, the smoking pyre, those fluttering binkies. Then I stood beneath fluorescent lights. The candles on the exam table winked out in a wind that wasn’t. I swayed, slapping my palms on the cool, silver surface as Pru yipped.
“What was that?” My voice shook as badly as my legs.
Raye clapped her hands, making me start. I was jumpier than the proverbial cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Could you blame me?
“It worked!”
“You had doubts?”
“I never tried this spell before.”
“So we could have ended up in limbo?”
“We didn’t actually go anywhere, Becca.”
“Something went to Scotland.” I paused. “Didn’t it?”
“Our minds? Spirits? Souls?” She shrugged. “A little of all three?”
As the Scotland of 1612 no longer existed, that made sense. Or at least it made as much sense as anything did lately.
“You said the Book of Shadows was yours.”
“It is.”
“Then why don’t you know more about the spell?”
She began to return the articles she’d set out to the sack. “I should have said that it’s mine now.”
I rubbed my head. There were so many things I wanted to ask. Where to start, where to start? She didn’t give me a chance.
“I’m an air witch. We rule the crossover between this world and the next. We can communicate with the dead.” She spread her hands. “Air witches can bring the dead across—either to this plane as ghosts, or we can send a ghost on to the next.”
She waited for me to comment, but what was I supposed to say to that?
“This book belonged to another air witch,” she continued. “She had the power to alleviate pain, an air witch gift that I don’t have. At least not yet. She left her book to me when she died.” Her eyes met mine. “The Venatores Mali killed her.”
“How can a witch-hunting society from the seventeenth century still be active today?”
“They’ve been revived.”
“Why?”
“To raise Roland.”
“The asshole we just saw?”
Raye nodded.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“If you want sense, you came to the wrong place.”
“How do you raise a dead witch hunter?”
“Sacrifice of a witch by a Venatores Mali who’s killed the most witches, while the worthy believers chant, skyclad, or naked, beneath the moon.”
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve seen it. I was nearly the witch du jour.”
“Someone tried to kill you?”
“It’s the world’s new favorite pastime.”
“Join the club,” I said. “Why us?”
“Apparently the crazies get points for every witch they kill. Then they’re supposed to brand the victim with their secret decoder rings and burn the bodies. Initiation to the freak zone.”
“You have no idea how they knew we were witches before we knew ourselves?” I wasn’t even sure I believed it now.
“If I ever get my hands on one of them for more than a minute, I plan to beat a lot of things out of them. That’s on the list.”
“What happens when they raise this dude?”
“I don’t want to find out. We’re going to stop them before they succeed.”
Sounded like a really good plan. I’d only had one glimpse of Roland McHugh, and I didn’t want another. Especially if he’d been dead for the last four hundred years.
“But why would a bunch of witches go to all this trouble to raise a man who hates them?”
“The Venatores Mali aren’t witches. They’re witch hunters.”
“Who chant and perform spells, naked, beneath the moon. What isn’t witchy about that?”
“Murder is not witchcraft. Those who practice Wicca, and those born to the craft, true witches, harm none. Harm is all the Venatores Mali do.”
I remembered the upside-down pentagram at Owen’s place. “Satanism?”