Page 23 of Wicche Hunt

“I thought I might be sick.”

“Did it help?” Gran asked.

Nodding, I stood and shouldered the backpack. “Yeah. It did. It’s not completely gone but I’m feeling much stronger than I was a few minutes ago.”

“Good,” Mom said. “Mother, I made sure Lucy has your number in case she has any trouble kicking that piece of garbage she married out. I don’t think she will, though. She sounded determined.”

“That’s too bad,” Gran said as we walked single file to Mom’s car. “I was looking forward to putting the fear of me into him.”

I opened the passenger door for Gran and then got into the back of Mom’s very safe and very expensive sedan. While they discussed some of the petitioners, I called Detective Hernández and told her about the two murders.

TEN

I’m Not Crying. You’re Crying. Shut Up

After we dropped off Gran, Mom and I went to Aunt Hester’s home and found Uncle Andrew’s car parked at the curb.

“Good. He didn’t leave before we got here,” Mom said.

Mom had just stepped onto the porch when Andrew opened the front door. He came out to kiss Mom’s cheek and then nodded at me.

“Arwyn. Thank you.” Returning his attention to my mom, he asked, “Do we know when Roger will be here?”

Mom checked her watch. “I thought he’d be here by now.” She pulled her brother away from the open door and whispered, “Check the airlines and make sure there hasn’t been an accident, or a hijacking, between here and Seattle.”

Pulling out his phone, he sat on the porch swing while Mom and I went in to see Aunt Hester.

We found her sitting in near darkness, her chair under a reading lamp that hadn’t been turned on. Curtains drawn, the only light in the living room came from the open bathroom door down the hall. She had a wadded-up tissue in one hand and stared down, dry-eyed, at Pearl’s high school graduation photo in her other hand. The poor woman had cried every tear in her body. Desiccated, she was moments from blowing away.

“Let me get you some tea, dear,” Mom said, walking to the kitchen.

I went to Hester and crouched down, pulling the photo and tissue from her grip. Her ex-husband was the Corey. Hester was a Goode, an old and well-respected wicche family. Pearl had inherited her father’s dark hair and green eyes, but Hester was an assortment of pale colors. Light hair, light skin, light eyes, in faded pajama bottoms and a light gray hoodie. She bordered on transparency.

“Let’s go out back.” Standing, I pulled her up with me. When she tried to protest, to drop back down to the chair, I kept her upright. Fae strength meant she wasn’t hitting the ground on my watch.

Keeping an arm firmly around her, I walked her to the door in the dining room that led to the back garden. When I opened it, she squinted at the still-bright early evening sky. Lifting an arm, she shaded her eyes. I considered just letting her sit on her porch but decided against it. She was too far from thriving, vibrant things.

I walked her to a garden bench under a huge crepe myrtle tree that was exploding with bright pink blossoms. Sitting beside her, I pulled out my phone.

“Aunt Hester, did anyone tell you we found Bridget’s daughter?”

She didn’t respond.

Resting the phone on the bench beside me, I pulled one of her hands between my two gloved ones. “Well, we did.” I squeezed. “Do you know how I’m a Cassandra wicche?”

She nodded. Barely.

“It turns out Bridget’s girl Sam is a necromancer.”

Her brow furrowed as she took that in, still clearly not understanding why I was telling her this.

“Auntie Hester, are you listening?”

She looked up at me, eyes dull.

“I got a call from Sam last night. She had Pearl’s spirit with her, and she wanted me to come here so Pearl could pass on a message to you. Okay?”

It was extraordinary, the way life and understanding and hope flooded back into Hester’s gaze, and then she was the one grippingmyhand.

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