It was the very hill where her physical body now sat. But it wasn’t a church. It was Conal O’Herlihy’s home.
Passing through the wood and clay walls, Maisie floated into the master bedroom, to the wellspring of the scarlet hatred—a mean Irishman who grimaced even in sleep.
Maisie sensed from this man, Conal O’Herlihy, an abiding understanding and resolve that his myopic self-service must eventually empty into a dark sea of despair. Yet he was committed to enjoying the benefits of his wicked acts without regret, and in their fullness, until that time.
In his coat, hanging by the bed, there smoldered a bone knife coated with the blood of a dead man.
He reminded her a bit of Violina, only she was more evolved. Wasn’t she?
Below Conal’s lonesome room lay the basement that, in this time, was secret from all but a few dozen confidants, dug for the propagation of the Patmos mushroom—and more.
Several objects carried the heavy energy of this devious commitment.
Implements used to enslave natives—whips and whiskey.
The corridor led to a larger chamber, the one where her body sat now. Here lay the stone coffins, affixed with some type of funnel. They were empty.
But someone was here…
There was something beyond the wall, a congestion of decay.
Where was the entrance? For Maisie, it was simply a matter of passing through.
…into despair.
A pit, recently filled in. It held dozens of corpses, tossed atop each other haphazardly like detritus. Natives. Tsalagi men and boys.
Maisie passed through them to learn more, tensing with despair and horror as she did. Conal and his men had abducted them, one at a time, plied them with alcohol, and enslaved them to dig the chambers. They were worked to death.
No wonder Ember Hollow wreaked of despair. These souls deserved the sanctified farewell of their culture. The town had been doomed to dark times since its inception. It was terrifying, alarming and draining.
Farther out from the town’s center, lined with rough-hewn buildings, was another powerful emanation.
There was the thick sense of a man who presided over the estate like a benevolent dictator. It came as a relief.
A servant, a woman of hearty constitution, slept fitfully, her hands performing the work of sewing and cleaning. Chloris was her name.
Blackness fumed from the bed of a small room at the end of a corridor, where a candle burned near the window.
A man who was out of place, out of time, and…missing something.
A soul.
This was an automaton whose only gears were kill and live, in that order. Here it lay—he lay, wounded but healing fast. This being did not belong here, or anywhere.
If Conal was a vessel filled with undiluted hate, the wounded guest of Wilcott Bennington was a killing machine oblivious to morality.
As she reluctantly explored the strange pale man in Bennington’s guest room, Maisie came to a devastating realization.
This de-man was Everett Geelens, the very killer who had plagued—would plague—Ember Hollow.
He had already interacted with the settlers, killing at least one—and would do so again, when able.
Maisie tried entering his dreams, tried filling him with love—but found there simply was no capacity. Everett existed as a flesh-and-blood reaper, and nothing else.
What if…he’s the end of us all? Maisie wondered. It was the despair of this terrible thought that made her want to flee back to her own temporal terrain. Alarmed and despaired, Maisie was ready to give up on Akashic travel forever, then and there.
* * * *
In her lifetime of learning the craft, Violina had visited other realms, other sectors of consciousness; she had even skirted the InBetween, where dead and living souls commune. But astral travel in the Akashic realm was not her area of experience. Years of dedication were required for any branch of magic. Violina found her time and energy were better focused in other areas, such as controlling outcomes—and people.
Now it would have benefited her agenda, but without the expertise, she had to rely on Maisie.
Watching the girl intently, Violina cemented the details of the scheme she was improvising, an opportunity that would be sinful to waste.
When Maisie came out or trance, it was with a shocked gasp that startled Violina.
She touched Maisie’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“The sorrows there began when the settlers arrived.” She told Violina about Conal and Everett. “I couldn’t be near those energies any longer,” she finished. “So much…darkness.”
“It’s in the past, Maisie. Don’t be troubled,” said Violina. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t think you understand…”
“No, dear.” Violina arced her hand—with Matilda’s athame in it—across Maisie’s throat. “I just don’t care.”
Maisie’s scream emerged as a whistle, not from her mouth but her throat, on a stream of hot blood.
Violina reached into her Louis Vuitton purse and withdrew a gold goblet, thrusting it under Maisie’s chin to catch the flow, holding the dying girl’s head steady via a rough claw-hold in her hair.
Chapter 17
Spilt Blood
Answering the door to Ysabella’s suite, Stella furrowed her brow on seeing McGlazer’s expression. “You’re not sick too, are you?”
“No. Just have something on my mind.” He followed her to the bedroom entrance to look in on Ysabella. “How is she?”
“It’s something more than just exhaustion.”
“You have a theory?”
Stella grimly shook her head. “Judging by her temp, vitals—she’s getting worse.”
Another knock. As Stella moved to answer it, McGlazer stopped her. “Let me get it. It might be the only way I can be useful.” Stella didn’t ask what he meant.
“Here’s your prayer circle, Reverend.” At the door stood Bernard, surrounded by familiar faces—Candace at his side, Emera in his arms, Elaine Barcroft, Leticia Lott holding little Wanda and Jill Hawkins behind him, DeShaun and Stuart nearby with Bravo.
McGlazer let them in, well aware that his smile was far from genuine, and leaned close to Bernard. “Can we talk?”
Bernard blinked with surprise. “You and me?”
The new arrivals murmured their hellos, taking in Stella’s gloomy update on Ysabella. Little Emera, sensing something wrong under the pall of low light and
