Page 29 of Spirit Witch
‘I’m sorry.’ Never had an apology felt so inadequate.
‘It’s not your fault.’
I watched her for a moment or two. ‘We can take your ashes to the wood so you can be with the others. Blackbeard, the man who killed you, cremated you somehow. I guess it made it easier to transport your bodies.’
‘Blackbeard?’
I scratched my neck. ‘That’s what I’ve christened him. He checked in under the name Nicholas Remy but we don’t know if that’s his real name. It could—’
‘It’s not.’ I glanced at her askance and she explained. ‘Nicholas Remy is the name of an old French witch hunter from the sixteenth century.’
I sucked in a breath. Well, that made a kind of sense.
Clare got to her feet. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could give my remains to my parents,’ she said. ‘I have no desire to be trapped with the others in an ancient forest. They were bad enough when they were alive. I can’t begin to imagine how annoying they’ll be now they’re dead.’
She had a point. ‘We can do that,’ I promised.
‘Thank you. I’m going to leave now. I want to find my family. My real family. I want to find out if they’re alright.’
I nodded and watched her dissipate into nothingness. I hoped for her sake that everythingwasalright. It would be torture if her family were suffering and she could do nothing but watch.
Winter strode over and put his arms round me. ‘Are you okay? You’re shaking all over.’
‘I’m fine.’ I ran a hand through my hair. ‘This is just so hard.’ I met his eyes. ‘I don’t want to be the only person in the world who can talk to ghosts, Rafe. I can’t cope with this kind of responsibility. It should be someone else.’
‘You’re stronger than you know, Ivy Wilde,’ he murmured in my ear. ‘And I’ll be with you every step of the way.’
I leaned into him, taking a moment to enjoy his closeness. I had a horrible feeling I was going to need all the comfort I could get.
Chapter Nine
If this had been a normal kind of day, driving to the arse end of the country to tramp around soggy moorland, converse with dead witches and almost catch a bearded serial killer would have resulted in a good night’s sleep. There again, if this had been a normal day, I wouldn’t have left my sofa for anything more than a choccie biscuit – and even then I probably could have inveigled Winter into getting it for me. I might have had to put up with him presenting it on a lace doily, followed by him passing judgment when I ate not one biscuit but twenty, but it would still have been better than this.
It was rare that anything prevented me from sleeping; the last time I suffered from a bout of insomnia was around the time Billy Smythe stole my Barbie and set her hair alight and I couldn’t decide between turning him into a Barbie himself or making him my personal slave. I think that was when I decided that I was going to do everything I could to avoid letting life’s travails stress me out, whether they involved mutilated Barbies or not.
The bed was comfortable and Winter was his usual warm, snuggly self. He didn’t snore and he didn’t hog the bedcovers. His feet were toasty warm. There weren’t any ghosts in the vicinity chatting to me and trying to keep me awake. Brutus wasn’t even there, pawing at my face and demanding attention. So why the hell couldn’t I sleep?
I sighed heavily and turned over. Maybe counting sheep would help – except that reminded me of what had happened up in Scotland just last month and only exacerbated my sleeplessness. A hot milky drink was supposed to be another helpful remedy – or so I’d heard. Unfortunately, the only milk here was in those little plastic containers designed for tea and coffee. Even if I could work out a way to heat them up without using either a microwave or magic, they’d provide little more than a single mouthful.
If Winter were awake, I’d have asked him to bespell me but he was fast asleep. His jaw was slack and, for once, he was utterly at rest. I screwed up my face. This was ridiculous: Ivy Wilde did not suffer from insomnia. Unless it had something to do with the latent necromancy swirling around my system. That chilling thought had me sitting bolt upright and breaking into a cold sweat.
I got out of bed and padded naked into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. I was dabbing it dry with a towel when I heard the sound of an engine outside. That couldn’t be right; it was three o’clock in the morning and we were in the middle of nowhere. Even farmers wouldn’t get up this early.
I checked on Winter, who’d not even stirred, and grabbed my coat, shrugging it on to preserve my modesty. Then, doing what no one should ever do when it’s the middle of the night, there is a serial killer on the loose and many, many ghosts to contend with, I slipped out.
The pub was silent inside but I could hear voices outside. Frowning, I walked over to the front door and put my ear against it.
‘We should just ring the bell.’
‘Or spell it open and find rooms for ourselves. We can settle up with the owners tomorrow.’ There was a pause. ‘I mean, today.’
‘We will do no such thing,’ the familiar voice of the Ipsissimus – the living one – said. ‘There is plenty of room in the car. Besides, we’re not here to sleep.’
‘We can’t investigate anything while we’re out here.’
‘Honestly, I never knew witches could whine so much! Villeneuve, get back to the car. You can sleep in the boot. Masters and Houseman can have the back seat. The other two can take the front.’
‘What about you, sir?’
