Page 48 of Wicching Hour

I explained both of the prophetic visions I’d had this morning and then briefly touched on the murder so they’d know what had been happening when Mom had called earlier.

“The shared vision with Uncle Bracken was different,” Mom said. “When we’ve done this before—you, your Gran, and me—we see things from a little different angle. This time, I was watching the arsonist from inside the truck, idling up the road, waiting for him. The gas gauge was close to empty and there were fast food wrappers littering the floor mats. The radio was turned low, a man talking about baseball. The driver kept turning his head, looking in all directions.

“Through the back window, I watched a dark figure throw something bright in the moonlight. It hit the side of the gallery and then flames began to climb up the walls. The driver threw it into reverse, kicking up pebbles as he floored it and then slammed on the brakes. A man opened the door and jumped in, but the cab lights must have been disconnected because I couldn’t see the arsonist’s face. He was turned around, staring out the back window while he hit the dashboard, yelling at the driver to go.”

“It’s because Bracken was with us,” I explained.

They all looked at me.

I gestured to my great-uncle. “He’s the one with the eye for detail. I know the arsonist has yellowing teeth, a chunky ring on his thumb, and cracked and peeling work boots. I don’t normally see that. My visions aren’t that zoomed in. This gives us some details to look for and report.”

“But nothing has happened,” Bracken protested. “Why would the police be involved before the fact?”

“Remember I told you that Declan, Orla, and I are part of a supernatural crime fighting committee?” I asked. “We can tell Detective Osso—he’s a black bear shifter and our grumpy leader. A hate crime against a wicche qualifies as something we need to investigate.”

“Oh, good,” Bracken said.

I explained about the stalker and the new burning witch podcast. At first Gran waved it away as a waste of our time, but the more I explained his behavior, the recordings, and my belief that Cal was pushing him, she sat forward, anger lining her face.

“She’d expose all of us?” Gran demanded. “She’d see us all hanged?”

Bracken patted her arm. “They don’t do that anymore.”

She turned to him. “Given the vision, they still want to burn us at the stake.”

He tilted his head in acceptance of that point. “I suppose some of them do.”

Gran turned to Mom. “You called your sister and told her to stay off the sailboat?”

Mom nodded. “I did.”

“What about you, Bracken?” I asked. “What did you see?”

He turned and studied me a moment. “I don’t know how you do that.” He shook his head. “It was horrifying. I was there. I saw the hatred in his eyes, the sneer on his face, as he threw the lit beer bottle of gasoline at your magical gallery.”

Staring out the window, he said, “You’ve done so much. You’ve created this precious soap bubble of fantasy, brightening our dreary days.” He turned up a palm. “And someone decides that must be destroyed. More, the artist, the creator of wonder, must be destroyed along with her creation.” He blew out a breath. “Who are these people?”

Declan wrapped his arms more securely around me at Bracken’s words.

“Could you see his face?” I asked. “I only got a close-up of his mouth and his hand.”

“Oh.” He looked up at the ceiling and scratched his jaw. “Let’s see. He was white, with brown hair and eyes.” He patted his own chest. “He had a black denim jacket that was turned into a vest.” He brushed his shoulder. “The edges were ragged with stray threads. It had a patch on the left breast that I believe was a name. There was something obscuring the patch, though.”

He tapped his index finger on his chin a few times. “I think it was electrical tape, but since it had been affixed to fabric, it was starting to peel up along the edges. I could be wrong, but given the lines visible above and below the strip of black, I’d guess his name is John. Assuming that was his vest to begin with.”

Damn. I wished I’d always had Bracken picking up the details in my visions. “Perfect. Anything else about him physically that might make him easier to identify?”

Frowning, he added, “Well, he has a soft sort of face. Round. His eyes are too small and far apart. He has one of those short noses that forces you to look up his nostrils. Weak chin. And he had a little limp. It wasn’t noticeable until he ran for the truck, but then he seemed to be favoring his… right leg. There was a hitch in his step.”

“Okay.” I got off Declan’s lap, grabbed my backpack, and sat on the floor at Bracken’s feet. I pulled out my sketchbook and put it on the coffee table with my charcoals. Bracken leaned forward to watch me work, making suggestions if what I drew was different than what he remembered. It wasn’t perfect, but at the end, we had a close approximation of the arsonist.

“I don’t understand, darling,” Mom said. “It hasn’t happened. How can this help?”

“It’s always good to know who our enemies are,” Gran said.

“There’s that,” I said, flipping the page and drawing the stalker. This face, I knew well. “I’ll send them both to Osso and he’ll send them out to the rest of the group. It’s good to have faces and know what the threat is. If we’re lucky, someone may even recognize one of them.”

Away from Declan’s warmth, I felt a chill run down my spine. I glanced out the back window and caught a dark shadow disappearing around the house. I needed to do something to beef up her wards. “Meanwhile, what are we doing about the Swans and their willingness to kill in aid of a sorcerer?”

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