Page 91 of The Wolfing Hour
“I don’t think so. Hang on.” Ida opened an app on her cell phone, and the porch light came on, bathing the steps and most of the porch in bright, white light. “Look closer. It’s not him.”
“But it’s his face.” My voice came out as a gasping whimper. I knew Ronan’s face. I’d kissed every plane of it, explored this jaw with fingers and tongue, stared into those dark brown eyes for hours on end.
No.
No, that wasn’t right. Ronan had hazelgreeneyes, not dark brown ones.
“Look, Betty.Look.” Ida pointed to where the edges of his face didn’t line up. “It’s all wrong.”
Relief poured through me, turning my legs to water. Someone had used magic to superimpose Ronan’s face over the victim’s. Either an amateur or someone working quickly, because it was a terrible job. Similar to the way my face looked when I was holding Demon Betty back.
By this time, Fennel had returned with Cecil. The cat leapt to the top of the steps, beside the victim’s—not Ronan’s—head. He sniffed the wound on the chest then pulled his head back, mouth partially open as if he’d smelled something unpleasant. Cecil climbed up beside him, dipped one tiny hand into the man’s open chest, and began rooting around.
I gagged at the sound.
With a wet squelch, Cecil pulled a hex bag out of the wound. He dragged it a foot away from the body, extracted something from his hat, and the bag burned to ash.
Ronan’s face faded away, revealing another familiar one.
“Oh no.” The words erupted from me. “No, no, no. Come on. He was just a kid.”
“Did you know him?” Ida asked gently.
“His name was Trey Jefferson. One of Floyd’s—one ofRonan’swolves. He’s young. Barely twenty-two.” I turned to her, suddenly desperate. Emotion ricocheted through my body like a barrage of rubber bullets—fear, sorrow, hope, relief, guilt. “Can you talk to him? Maybe he can tell us who did this to him.”
“Is there any doubt?” Ida looked skeptical. “It’s got to be the alpha.”
“He might know something about Rory,” I said. “Please.”
“I’ll try.” She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, they gleamed with white light. Ida’s necromancer power was like Ronan’s ability to enthrall wolves; the trick wasn’t to release it as much as to get out of its way and let it go to work.
Her eyes brightened then dimmed back to their normal blue. “I can’t do it.”
“Why? Is his soul too far away?”
“The opposite. It’s too close.” She looked from Trey to me. “Betty, he’salive.”
On cue, Trey’s eyes fluttered open. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. He writhed against the steps, kicked out his legs, made gagging sounds.
Fennel swished his tail on Trey’s shoulder and hissed. Cecil made a gesture encompassing everything and pointed frantically at me then the wolf.
“The protection spell. Hang on. I’ve got you, Trey.” I whispered a silent chant, quickly giving him permission to be on the property so the spell wouldn’t hurt him.
The young wolf stopped gagging and kicking, but the writhing continued. How was he alive? I didn’t know anyone who could live with such brutal injuries. I wanted to summonan ambulance or a witch or a god—anyone who might be able to help.
I gripped Ida’s forearm. “Call Margaux and Bronwyn. Maybe they can track down a healer who?—”
“There’s no time. He’s very close,” Ida said gently. “I can’t always tell, but I connected with him. His soul is slipping away. If you have questions, ask them now.”
I crawled up to his side, the knees of my jeans soaking up blood. My hand shook as I stroked the hair off his damp forehead. I would’ve taken his hand, but his palms were sliced and covered with silver. They had to hurt.
“Trey, was Ronan with you when this happened?”
His gaze locked onto mine as he formed the word, “No.”
It seemed wrong to feel relief as Trey endured such pain. “Did Floyd do this?”
