“Yes.” She looked at the young man’s body, then asked Fielding, “You said these marks weren’t tattoos. Could they have been self-made? Like-” she hesitated, then said, “burned into the skin?”
Fielding considered the question. “It’s possible-I’ll need to do skin grafts, check the cells underneath for signs of intense heat and dead cells. But if it was recent, I would expect discoloration on the skin surrounding the marks. Still-I’ll check. I’ll get back to you later today.”
“You’re doing all the autopsies today?”
“Yes, I just wanted you to see this first.”
“Did the toxicology reports come back on Abby?” Skye asked.
“Not yet. I expect them early this afternoon. I’ll call you if there’s anything suspicious.”
“I’m going to wait in the lobby for Mr. Rucker,” Skye said.
She stopped next to the young man again. She looked at his toe tag. Chris Kidd. All color drained from her face. “I talked to this boy yesterday. When I was at the school-he came up to me and said his girlfriend might know something about Abby’s death. I pressed, and while he didn’t flat-out say it, I had the distinct impression that she was on the cliffs that night. I intended to follow up with her yesterday, but then the librarian stole-” She stopped. “Anthony, how can this all be happening? The librarian? Chris Kidd? The secretary … they’re all from the school.”
“But not Nichols,” Fielding reminded her.
“Maybe he’s not part of the same …
“He must be,” Anthony said. “The marks are almost identical.”
“I have everyone working on that case, checking his background, his apartment, his associates. He’s not married, but maybe he’s friends with someone at the school; maybe he had reason to be there yesterday.”
“Or maybe,” Anthony said, “he was part of the coven. Maybe he was at the cliffs during the ritual-maybe
Skye said, “So were Lily and Rafe.”
“I’m going back to the house. I’ll look at Rafe myself. After, I’ll head back to the mission and research what this mark might mean.”
“After I talk to Rucker,” said Skye, “I’ll check on Lily.”
Anthony hesitated, wondering if he should tell her that Moira had gone after Lily. Instead, he said, “Be careful. Elizabeth Ellis is a witch.”
Rod Fielding’s head shot up. “Elizabeth?”
“You know her?” Anthony said.
“We go to the same church. She’s a nice woman; so is her daughter.”
“Don’t go back to that church. The new pastor, Pennington, is suspect.”
Fielding frowned, and Anthony wondered for a brief moment whether he could be trusted. But why would he call them to the morgue and show them the marks on the corpses? And he’d gone above and beyond after the murders at the mission.
The coroner shook his head. “I don’t go often, once in a while. I’ve only been twice since Pennington took over. I don’t really like him much. He has charisma, I’ll give him that. Very attractive to the women, and young. Pennington came with outstanding credentials. I don’t think Matthew Walker would have turned over his church to just anyone.”
“That’s something we definitely need to look into,” Anthony said.
Skye asked Rod, “Do you know how I can reach Walker?”
“His cell phone number is in my Rolodex. Grab it on your way out. Tell him I said hello. I should have called him at some point. His mother was gravely ill. I just didn’t think of it.”
On their way out, Skye took Anthony’s arm. “Anthony, please be careful. And remember-let me handle the police work. Too many people are watching me too closely. Any hint that the police department is investigating supernatural crimes and everything we’ve done to protect Juan Martinez and Rafe Cooper will blow up in our faces.”
Moira wasn’t certain
Lily’s feet were bleeding. Moira had forgotten she’d been injured running from the coven two nights ago until she saw the blood seeping through her thick socks. Running three blocks and hopping over a couple of fences in the process hadn’t helped any. Now she curled into a ball in the passenger seat. The cab was so hot Moira was sweating, but Lily had complained of being cold.
Moira approached Skye’s house cautiously, looking for anything amiss. Skye’s truck was in the driveway, but the second car was gone. She drove around behind the house, since there were no fences to block her view.
A metal chair was overturned on the deck.
It might be nothing; it could have been knocked down by wind at night. But Moira didn’t remember any wind strong enough to knock the chair over. And Skye McPherson seemed too … meticulous … to leave a piece of furniture in disarray.
She stopped the truck but didn’t get out. She couldn’t leave Lily alone, but she also didn’t want to bring her into an unknown situation.
“Lily,” she said.
Lily opened her eyes. “Where are we?”
“The sheriff’s house. I need to check it out before I bring you in. How are you doing? Can you walk?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay. Be alert. I’m going to open the windows. I know it’s cold out, but if you see anyone, scream bloody murder. Even if it’s someone you know. I’ll hear you.”
Lily nodded, her body shaking.
“I’ll bring a blanket as soon as I can.”
Moira parked the truck, opened the windows a crack, and left the keys with Lily. “Lock it,” she commanded, and got out.
Moira took the three steps up to the deck with one leap, her dagger in one hand, ready to attack. Every nerve was on high alert, every cell listening, smelling, feeling what was outside the house, and inside.
No movement. No breathing. No life.
Her heart skipped. The idea that Anthony and Rafe were dead, deserting her. Moira couldn’t do it alone. She needed backup, anyone to be on her side.
And she wanted it to be someone she trusted. Like Anthony.
Like Rafe.
She felt alone again, cold and helpless and hopeless.
The sliding glass door was ajar. She pushed it open with one finger and stepped inside.
The kitchen was a disaster. Dishes had been thrown around the room and shattered. Large platters and mugs had left gouges in the walls. The table was no longer in the center of the room; it was upside down, in the living room near the front door. The couch had been upended. Pictures had fallen from the wall, the frames and glass broken. Feathers from throw pillows had been scattered everywhere. A crucifix, one that Moira remembered hung over the doorway, had been thrown into the antique hutch, breaking a collection of dishes Skye had stored there.
No one had touched a thing. As certainly as she breathed, Moira knew that a magician had walked in here and had a temper tantrum. Everything she passed by had invisible remnants of dark energy. She had never felt quite like this before. The entire house seemed alive, sizzling, crackling with sorcery.
As she breathed in the pulsating energy surrounding her, Moira’s cells tingled. It would be so easy to pull that energy into her, to absorb it, to refuel. She was so tired …
She stood in the guest room and stared at the bed Rafe had slept in last night.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pounded her fists on the wall. She had to resist the urge to draw in the magic. Walking in here she had a taste of it, just a taste, and it fed her craving. On her tongue, in her eyes, coating
